


The War of the Worlds: Gravity Falls Edition

by E350tb



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A Whole Bunch of People Die, Alien Invasion, Complete, Gen, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, War, War of the Worlds Adaption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-18 17:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11879391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E350tb/pseuds/E350tb
Summary: The year is twenty-seventeen, and life for the Pines family and the world is about to change dramatically. From across the depths of space, an invasion is coming. Based on the novel by H. G. Wells.





	1. I: The Eve of the War

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Sorry about the footnotes.

**Foreword**

What's the best alien invasion story? Well, let's be fair, that's a subjective thing - everybody has their own tastes with must be respected, even if it's something terrible like _Skyline_. I'm not sorry.

Anyway, in my opinion, the best alien invasion story isn't anything like _Independence Day_ (entertaining as that film is) or anything big and modern like that. No, sir, I prefer something a little more 'classic'. My favourite alien invasion story is _The War of the Worlds_.

There are a few reasons for this. Partially it's because H. G. Wells is my English literature waifu. Partially it's the setting - the comfortable, middle-class Edwardian landscape of Middle England in the 1900s being torn to pieces in excruciating detail, and meanwhile we've got old-style artillery pieces and torpedo rams and men in spiked hats talking about underground cities. Partially it's how it's a criticism of the genocidal aspects of imperialism long before that was The Done Thing.

But I think the main this is just how _real_ it all feels. It's not the typical 'humans win through good old grit and smarts' story. Despite the book's title, it's not even a _war_. It tells us what would probably really happen if aliens with interplanetary travel picked a fight with the human race - it would be like a four-year-old in a cage match with the Hulk. Reading the book, or watching/listening to the various adoptions, fills you with this real sickening _dread_ when the tripods appear, because you know they can't even be slowed down, never mind stopped. (Unless it's _Thunder Child_. Even then, that's literally the only success the humans have and it's only a local one).

As I said, this dread is maintained in all the adoptions. Even in the 2005 film, in which we are expected to believe that Tom Cruise is the only competent human being in New Jersey, the scenes where we see the Martians at work are deeply disturbing. (Although the whole incinerating people but not clothes thing is a bit goofy.)

Everybody and their dog has adapted _The War of the Worlds_. Since my thing is awful fanfiction, I thought I'd give it a go for that genre. Because this is totally what the world needs.

For those who aren't familiar with the source material and don't have the means to buy the book, I'd highly recommend looking up _Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds_. It's on YouTube, shouldn't take too long to find it. Basically, it's the book adapted as a rock opera. It's as awesome as it sounds. But if you're up to speed, then I won't hold you up any longer.

Fair warning; _The War of the Worlds_ is not a happy tale. There will be blood. ( _I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE. DRAAAAAAAAAAINAGE._ ) By the end of this, some of you may think I am a monster. To which I say...um...sorry.

Enjoy!

* * *

 

**I: The Eve of War**

_Two possibilities exist - we are alone in the universe, or we are not. Both are equally terrifying. - Arthur C. Clarke_

Nobody would have believed, in the early years of the twenty-first century, that human affairs were being watched from the timeless void of space. Nobody would have fathomed that they may have been scrutinised as a man with a telescope might study the creatures that swarm and multiply within a drop of water. Few even considered the possibility of life on other planets, and even when they did, it was only in the realm of fantastic speculation in film and novels.

And yet, millions of miles away, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this Earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely, they drew their plans against us.[1]

The late twenty-tens were a time of great disillusionment and apathy, a reaction to the great upheavals of the previous years. Leaders preferred to focus on party agendas than on scientific endeavour, and as a result the great telescopes and satellites observing the stars were allowed to fall into disarray. When, one night, a series of bright green flares suddenly erupt from Mars, they were first observed by amateurs and private individuals - it was only an hour later that NASA was able to begin its own observations.

On that warm and pleasant night towards the end of May, Doctor Kelvin Ogilvy[2] was observing the strange flares from his observatory in Northern Oregon - on this occasion, he was by chance accompanied by Doctor Stanford Filbrick Pines, a genius inventor and scientist who had come to his observatory for a lecture Ogilvy had performed earlier. Ford, as he was known to all, had seen far more than most, and the flares made him distinctly uneasy. Dr. Ogilvy, of course, had nothing at all like Ford's experiences with the unknown, and his rational mind refused to contemplate an unnatural origin to the phenomena.

"You need not worry, my good man," he said good-naturedly, "The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one."

He would repeat these words, again and again, as he corresponded with Ford over the next fortnight. In this time, the flares failed to disappear - in fact, they seemed to be coming closer and closer to the Earth. Ford fretted and worried, but Ogilvy was utterly convinced that there was no danger - indeed, the idea of examining these objects as they passed near to Earth excited him greatly.

It was the fifth night of June when they finally came. Eighteen of them crashed to Earth in various parts of the globe, concentrated in the territories of the Great Powers of the time - the United States, Russia and China, with a few others in Germany and India. They landed mostly in areas of limited population, and in America most were not even discovered until morning.

At this point in our narrative, dear reader, we find it necessary to slow down and set the scene of the oncoming calamity. It is just after daybreak on the sixth of June in the year twenty seventeen, and Doctors Ogilvy and Pines are hurrying to inspect a landed object in a clearing between the towns of Gravity Falls and Horshell...

* * *

 

"Quickly now, Doctor Pines, before the police arrive!"

Stanford Pines followed Doctor Kelvin Ogilvy up the rise, bound for the clearing atop the hill. It was still mostly dark - the sun was starting to peak over the pine trees and the sky was a deep red. The English astronomer was rather spry for his advanced age and unathletic occupation, Ford noted, but he had no trouble keeping up.

The green shooting star had come down about a mile north of Gravity Falls, unnoticed by most in the town. Ogilvy hoped to recover whatever had landed before anyone else arrived - he speculated that he might be dealing with rocks and minerals from the depths of space, and he wanted to bring it home for study at the first opportunity.

The excitable astronomer crested the ridge, leaning down and panting heavily as he surveyed the clearing. Ford followed close behind, gazing down into the open land towards the crater.

The crater had been formed roughly in the middle of the crater. Roughly fifty yards across, the hole in the earth was still smoking - the fumes were tinged an eerie green, and within the haze Ford could just about make out the shape of a cylinder. It had buried itself deep in the earth, and he wondered just how much of the strange device he couldn't see.

"Come now, let's get closer," said Ogilvy, rubbing his hands together.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Doctor Ogilvy," replied Ford, his face stern, "We have no way of knowing what's really in that crater..."

"Have you no sense of scientific endeavour, Doctor Pines?" scoffed Ogilvy, "We're not exactly going to touch it - just get a closer look."

He marched forward, grinning. Ford sighed.

"Was I like this when I was younger?" he asked himself, shaking his head as he followed Ogilvy.

As they approached, the smoke began to disappear, blown away by the wind. Ford could now properly identify the cylinder. It was a reddish brown, tall and foreboding, simmering in the light of the dawn. It glowed slightly from intense heat. As for what the structure was made of, Ford could not begin to ascertain a guess - only that it was certainly not a natural creation. A sense of growing dread filled him as he and Ogilvy came closer.

"I think this is far enough," he declared, holding out an arm to stop Ogilvy's advance.

Ogilvy huffed but took Ford's advice.

"What do you suppose it is?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Trouble," replied Ford, "Trust me."

"Perhaps..." Ogilvy licked his drying lips, "Perhaps this is first contact? Perhaps it is some alien envoy?"

Ford open to his mouth, but was stopped by a dreadful, screeching grinding.

He turned to the cylinder, and both men's eyes widened as they saw the top of the cylinder begin to move. It rotated, painfully slowly in counter-clockwise, and a hissing sound filled the air.

"Good lord," whispered Ogilvy, "Somebody must be _inside_."

He rushed forward unconsciously and quickly regretted it. The heat from the cylinder was intense, and he was forced to step back again almost instantly before he was burnt. He mopped his brow and turned to his companion.

"My god," he breathed, "We...we must alert the authorities! There must be somebody who can handle this, surely!"

Ford pursed his lips.

"I doubt that, Ogilvy," he replied, "Look, if anybody turns up, keep them away from the mouth of the crater. I need to head back to my lab and grab a few notes. Maybe I can get an idea of what we're dealing with here."

"You're leaving me alone?" exclaimed Ogilvy.

"Look, Doctor," said Ford, pointing at the unscrewing lid of the cylinder, "That thing will take hours to open fully. I have time to head home and back. You'll be alright."

Ogilvy swallowed and nodded.

"Two hours, then," he said, "I can't guarantee I'll be able to stop people from gathering, mind."

"Just don't let them touch the cylinder!" called Ford, racing for the edge of the clearing, "I'll be right back."

He broke into a jog, wiping sweat from his brow as he raced back towards Gravity Falls.

* * *

 

At 6am, as Ford passed back into the limits of Gravity Falls, the township began to open for business as usual. The morning freight passed through along the railway line, bound for the lumber mills over the border in Washington. The diner, the post office and the various small shops unlocked their doors. All seemed safe and tranquil.

The only sign of disturbance came in the morning news programme, as the first reports of cylinders arriving to Earth funnelled in.

_"...I'm Shandra Jimenez. Our top story tonight; strange cylinders from outer space have landed across the United States. The objects were first discovered this morning in the township of Grover's Mill, New Jersey[3] - other landings have been since been confirmed on both coasts including in our very own Gravity Falls. Reporters have already interviewed Professor Richard Pierson[4] of SETI about the landings, and we will be showing you what he said momentarily. For now, we go to our cameras in the Horshell Clearing..."_

* * *

 

[1] Most of this comes from the original text with some nods to the Jeff Wayne version - it's just too iconic an opening to change too much, quite frankly.

[2] First name taken from Lord Kelvin, a British scientist who claimed that we'd never have heavier-than-air vehicles and that the study of physics was over five years before Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Not an idiot, he just had a habit for making wonky predictions.

[3] Orson Welles reference.

[4] Orson Welles reference again.

 


	2. II: Horshell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, full disclosure - this is the part where things get real.

**II: Horshell**

_But who shall dwell in these worlds if they be inhabited? … Are we or they Lords of the World? - Johannes Kepler_

_"...reporting for the Associated Press in Grover's Mill, New Jersey, I'm Carl Phillips_ _ **[1]**_ _..._ "

Ford caught the end of the radio broadcast as he stepped back into his abode - the tourist trap known as the Mystery Shack. The gift shop was mostly empty, but in the corner, Soos and Wendy, the Shack's employees, were gathered by the radio, listening to the news streaming in on the airwaves.

" _Thank you, Carl. We have breaking news coming in NASA; they are confirming that four more objects have been confirmed in various parts of the United States. These are Beach City in the Delmarva region as well as open areas in the vicinities of Baton Rouge, Kansas City and Phoenix. This, alongside the confirmation of the Novgorod object by Moscow thirty minutes ago, brings our tally up to thirty-six. We take you now to a spokesman from Axion Labs, whose scientists have been tasked with..."_

"Ford!" exclaimed Soos, noticing the scientist walking by.

"Soos," nodded Ford, walking up to the vending machine.

"Is it true, man?" asked Wendy, "Is there really some alien object up in Horshell?"

"Yes, I'm afraid there is," said Ford, punching the code to his lab into the machine, "I've come down to pick up my notes on alien life - I asked Ogilvy to keep people away from the crater, but..."

He shrugged as the machine moved to the side.

"Aliens!" exclaimed Soos, "Wait 'till we tell Dipper and Mabel about that, dudes!"

"...Dipper and Mabel?" asked Ford, turning around, "Are they...is that _today?_ "

"Yeah," replied Wendy, "Stan's gone down to pick them up at the bus station."

Ford groaned and slapped his forehead.

"I completely forgot!" he exclaimed, "With all this cylinder business I - argh, I should be there!"

He turned and headed for the door.

"But what about your notes?" asked Soos.

"They can wait!" exclaimed Ford, "I'll borrow Stan's car and drive back up, but I'm not missing my niece and nephew!"

He bolted out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Soos and Wendy glanced at each other, shrugged, and turned their attention back to the radio.

" _...we interrupt that interview with another breaking bulletin - we can now confirm another object has landed south-west of Dimmsdale in Southern California..._ "

* * *

Stanley Pines drove back towards the Shack. It was now about eight - Ford had made it to the bus stop just before the bus, and now the extended Pines clan were gathered together.

Dipper and Mabel had grown a good deal since Ford had last seen them. Mabel had apparently finished going through her goth stage and was now back to sweaters, while Dipper seemed to have adopted a trenchcoat that the young paranormal investigator ruefully claimed made him look like John Constantine. Ford didn't see it, but then again he didn't really know who John Constantine _was_ (perhaps he'd ask for contact details later). In any case, there were still little reminders of the children Ford had met that first year - Mabel had the aforementioned sweater and Dipper still retained Wendy's old trapper hat.

"Look at you kids!" grunted Stan, "Growin' up so much while you're not looking! I mean, Dipper's still kinda short, but..."

"Hey!" exclaimed Dipper.

"Heh, don't worry about it, Dipper," reassured Ford, "It took me until college to get to my full height. Just remember it's not a race."

"So, how old are you kids these days?" asked Stan.

"Seventeen," said Mabel.

"Eighteen in August," Dipper added quickly.

Ford noted in amusement that his nephew still wanted to grow up quickly.

" _Yeesh_ , you're nearly in adulthood," groaned Stan "Before I know it you'll be pushin' me into a home."

"We'd never do that, Grunkle Stan!" exclaimed Mabel, scandalised.

"Yeah, we'd never find one that would let you in," added Dipper, smirking.

The family laughed, save for Stan, who furrowed his brow and concentrated on the road.

"So...we heard about that thing," said Mabel, "The one from space? What's up with that?"

"We don't know," replied Ford gravely, "And that troubles me. I'll be heading back up after we drop you off."

"Can I come?" asked Dipper.

"I told Ogilvy to keep people away from the crater," said Ford, "I can't exactly break my own rule to bring you along, my boy. Besides, for all I know it's incredibly radioactive."

"Oh, _come on_ ," grunted Dipper, crossing his arms.

"Look, if I can confirm it's not pumping eight thousand rads a minute into the surrounding area, I'll bring you up to see it," shrugged Ford, "But until then, you stay behind. Got it?"

Dipper sighed.

"Got it, Great Uncle Ford."

"Well, here we are!"

Stan pulled up in front of the Shack and climbed out. Ford shimmied into the driver's seat as Dipper and Mabel climbed out of the back seat.

"Alright, be home by dinner or I'm coming after you," said Stan.

"Okay, _mother_ ," said Ford, rolling his eyes.

"Have fun at the crash site, Grunkle Ford!" said Mabel, waving.

"I'll try, Mabel," replied Ford, "See you soon."

He drove away, turning the radio on as he did.

_"...tally up to fifty. In local news, the Governor has announced that State Troopers are being dispatched to the Horshell landing site in rural Oregon but has categorically denied sending the National Guard unless the situation deteriorates. Despite this, National Guard units across the state are being mobilised..."_

"So much for keeping people away," grunted Ford, "Hopefully it's not as bad as it could be..."

* * *

It was exactly as bad as it could have been.

The state troopers, perhaps due to their late arrival, had failed utterly to prevent a large crowd from gathering on the clearing. The local police had been able to create a cordon around the crater itself within which only Ogilvy and the authorities were allowed inside, but the rest of the open area was filled with humanity. The local diner owner, 'Lazy' Susan Wentworth, had set up a makeshift stall to serve hungry bystanders, and dozens and dozens of phones were recording the event for social media.

Ford pushed his way to the front of the crowd, ducking under the police tape and heading straight for Ogilvy.

"Ogilvy, what is going on?" he demanded.

"Sir, police cordon!" shouted a state trooper, who was standing next to Ogilvy.

"Easy, Lieutenant Henderson[2], he's my associate!" replied Ogilvy.

Henderson nodded, standing at ease.

"I'm sorry, Ford, but I'm only one man," said Ogilvy, "Once they started gathering there was no stopping them."

"Don't they have any sense of self-preservation?" demanded Ford, "For all we know, this could be a bomb!"

"We'll know soon," shrugged Ogilvy, "SETI is sending somebody out and...and there he is!"

A elderly, well-dressed man, escorted by state troopers, passed into the cordon. He walked straight up to the two scientists and offered his hand.

"Professor John Stent[3]," he said, "Here from the SETI Institute."

The three men introduced themselves.

"I had no idea SETI was a government body, professor," said Henderson.

"It is now," said Stent gravely, "We've gone from a trivia question to a national treasure overnight."

He looked pensively at the cylinder. The lid was still unscrewing.

"Although that might have been a death sentence, in the long run," he grunted, shaking his head.

"You're taking that idea well," noted Ogilvy.

"Did you ever read Tennyson?" asked Stent, "Ours is not to reason why..."

"Ours is but to do or die," nodded Ford.

"Indeed," said Stent, tucking his hands behind his back, "If we die, we die. Nothing I can do to help that. In any case, first contact is worth the risk."

"Look!"

Somebody in the front of the crowd - Ford recognised her as the cashier from the local supermarket - pointed at the cylinder.

Ford turned. He gasped as the lid shifted, slipping to the side and then crashing down to earth. A hiss filled the air, and Ford's breath caught in his throat. He clenched his fist and cringed - his stomach constricted.

_Something_ peeked out of the top of the cylinder.

What he saw cannot be readily described in a work such as this. There is nothing on Earth that be compared to the small fraction of the creature that was seen at the Horshell clearing. It was a _mass_ , tentacled and pulsing as it drew breath, although it did not seem to breath in the same way the creatures of Earth did. There were a number of spheres on the face - they were pure black, and while Ford guessed they might be eyes, he had no way to verify it. He could not discern what the skin was - it look neither liked scales nor the hide of an elephant or hippopotamus. It was entirely _wrong_.

It gazed at the crowd for just a few moments, than it returned to its capsule.

"Good... _good lord_ ," wheezed Ogilvy.

"Life," said Stent, "That simplifies matters. Henderson, gather a team. We need to try to communicate."

"I don't think we have any way of achieving meaningful contact with...with _that_ ," said Ford.

"Nevertheless, I have my instructions," replied Stent, "Ogilvy, Pines, if you'd like to accompany me?"

Ford looked to the cylinder and then back to Stent.

"I'll...stay behind," he said, "No offense, Professor Stent, but I've prodded with this sort of thing before. I'm in no hurry to repeat the experience."

Stent raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Well, my friend," said Ogilvy, "I shall see you when I return. Wish me luck, eh?"

Ford nodded, shaking the hands of both Ogilvy and Stent before ducking back under the police line. He found himself next to local policewoman - she was whispering a Hail Mary under her breath.

"Doctor," she said as she finished, "Do you reckon...do you reckon God made that thing?"

"It would stand to reason," shrugged Ford, "I'm not a believer myself, officer, but surely if there's a God He would have made _everything_."

The policewoman swallowed and began to whisper another prayer.

From his position, Ford could see the gathered deputation. Stent was taking the lead, carrying a small, rectangular device, rather like a box, that seemed to play messages in beeps and lights. Ogilvy followed, holding a pole upon which was affixed a white handkerchief. Behind him, several police - he recognised Henderson, as well as Sheriff Blubs and Deputy Durland - carried weapons over their shoulders but were being instructed to appear unthreatening if they could.

Stent waved them forward and they began to advance, slowly and deliberately. Stent's machine began to operate, and he held it up in front of him.

There was another hissing sound. A large construct - it looked to Ford like the end of a hose attached to a brown, metal box - slowly emerged from the top of the cylinder. It oriented with an almost casual sluggishness until it was pointed at the delegation.

In a sudden, visceral moment of pure horror, Ford knew exactly what was going to happen.

A beam emerged from the end of the construct, barely visible save for the glare that outlined it. It struck Stent and the man was instantly consumed in white-hot flame. He had about enough time to scream before his flesh was stripped from his body, leaving a black, distorted skeleton, still aflame, to collapse to the ground. The beam carried pitilessly on, consuming Ogilvy and Henderson before either man could comprehend what was going on, then Blubs and Durland, until the entire group had been turned into a pile of flaming bones on burnt ground.

Screams filled the air, and so too did the smell of burnt flesh. Ford was already beginning to back off, intending to head straight back to Stan's car and head for his lab, when he realised the beam was not stopping with the delegation. It was turning on the crowd.

Ford - and the entire crowd - began to run.

The 'Heat Ray' that followed them was pitiless. It made no distinctions; rich and poor, young and old, fit and ill; before this weapon all were equally insignificant. In seconds, a good portion of the crowd was literally an inferno.

Ford raced past a couple of state troopers and police who had fruitlessly opened fire on the cylinder, and heard their screams as each was incinerated in turn. He would later learn that not a single member of law enforcement made it off the clearing that day, whether they stayed and fought or ran. Their efforts to protect civilians were utterly irrelevant.

Tyler, the Mayor of Gravity Falls, was trying to lead a small group to the treeline. Ford watched the Heat Ray sweep the group away without a thought - the Mayor, the local newspaper owner Toby Determined and several others turned to fire. He shook his head and continued to run.

With a painful crash he collided with Lazy Susan, who was trying to pack up her stall before she ran.

"Forget the food, just run!" he bellowed.

Ford bolted again, but before Susan could respond to his call, the Heat Ray swept over her.

After what seemed like an age of running, Ford quite literally leapt over the rise that marked the edge of the clearing. He landed painfully and quickly climbed to his feet, looking back over the clearing.

Little remained of the crowd that had gathered early that morning - small groups were still alive and running in all directions, the Heat Ray dealing with them one at a time.

"Scatter!" Ford screamed, "You'll have a better chance, _scatter!_ "

Nobody responded - probably distracted by their own plights and the adrenaline - and as a result most of the groups were wiped out piecemeal. Eventually, one group remained, heading in his direction - Ford recognised Wendy's friends among them.

"I said scatter, _scatter!_ " Ford bellowed.

The group began to spread apart. For most, it was too little too late, and the Heat Ray quickly turned them into masses of fire. Thompson tripped on a branch and fell onto his face - Nate and Lee turned to help him, and all three quickly perished under the ray's heat. Only Robbie and Tambry remained, only metres from the rise.

The Heat Ray fired one last burst. Tambry dove over the rise, but Robbie was a split-second too late. The Heat Ray hit him in the back - his brief but terrible scream filled the air, and then all was horribly silent.

Ford quickly took cover behind the rise, dragging Tambry down with him. A few others had made it to the trees and were concealing themselves as quickly as they could.

The Heat Ray ceased firing. With another hiss, it lowered back into the cylinder. All was still.

The clearing was a truly terrible sight. Fires blazed away everywhere, and the twisted skeletons of those slain littered the burnt grass. The wind stank of burnt grass, burnt clothing and burnt humanity. The smoke drifted high into the sky, although there seemed no danger that the fires would gather enough fuel to reach the forest proper.

"Oh my god," Tambry breathed, shaking her head.

"We...we need to head back to town immediately," said Ford, "We...we'll have to evacuate."

The small handful of survivors turned away and began to head back towards the town - the first members of what would soon be the greatest exodus in the history of the human race.

As for the crowd on Horshell, it would later be found that only eight survived.[4]

* * *

" _...we've just received a bulletin from Horshell. In excess of two hundred people including a SETI researcher and thirty police and state troopers have been attacked and killed by a weapon that emerged from the cylinder - their bodies burned and distorted beyond all possible recognition_ _ **[5]**_ _. Sporadic reports from across the country indicate similar events have occurred at other landing sites. For obvious reasons, the Federal Government has advised that all people stay from these sites for the foreseeable future. Governor Montgomery Smith_ _ **[6]**_ _has advised us that several battalions of the National Guard are being dispatched to the area as we speak..."_

* * *

[1] Orson Welles again.

[2] Henderson is a journalist in the original novel and his job is to die very quickly to establish the Martian threat.

[3] Stent's role is largely the same as in the novel, although his fatalism is my own invention.

[4] Everybody's dead, Dave.

[5] This line is literally just lifted from the Orson Welles radio play.

[6] Orson Welles again. Basically, assume if a character comes up and they're not from Gravity Falls, assume I lifted the name from either the novel or the radio play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody's dead, Dave.


	3. III: The Fighting Machine

**III: The Fighting Machine**

_"This isn't a war," said the artilleryman. "It never was a war, any more than there's war between man and ants." - H. G. Wells_ _**[1]** _

As Ford drove up the road to the Shack, he passed the first military units rolling into the region. A convoy of troops of the Oregon Army National Guard rumbled down the road in their armoured personnel carriers[2], bound for Horshell and that terrible cylinder on the burnt-out clearing. Ford shook his head - what did they propose to do to that weapon with assault rifles? They should have been evacuating the area, not picking fights with the Great Unknown!

He pulled up in front of the Mystery Shack and climbed out of Stan's car, walking straight for the front door. He went straight in without knocking.

"About time you showed up, Ford! We're gonna..."

Stan's face fell as he regarded his twin brother.

"What the heck happened to you?" he asked.

Ford ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sensation of grit in his fingers. He looked at his six-fingered hand - it was covered in black ash.

"Ford, what happened?" demanded Stan.

Ford's legs gave way and he slumped to his knees. He found himself gazing at the wall, the shock of what had happened to him finally catching up to him.

"Ford? _Ford!_ "

Stan's yell brought Ford back to reality.

"Gather the kids," he said, "And tell Soos to start packing up the RV. We're leaving."

"Leaving?" demanded Stan, "What the hell do you mean _leaving?_ What happened up there?"

"Turn...turn on a radio or something," replied Ford.

Stan shook his head but did so.

" _...Associated Press has just indicated that their reporter, Carl Phillips, is among the hundred and sixty dead at Grover's Mill...I'm receiving another local bulletin now, confirming the death of Mayor Tyler Cutebiker of Gravity Falls, alongside about two hundred others at the clearing at Horshell. He joins SETI astronomer Professor Stent and his colleague Doctor Ogilvy as high-profile casualties of what we are now calling 'the Heat Ray'. National Guard units are continuing to..."_

"We're being _invaded?!_ " exclaimed Stan.

"Invasion?" replied Ford, chuckling mirthlessly, "That wasn't invasion, Stan, that was extermination. The best way to ensure survival is to be as far away from it as possible."

He looked around.

"Where are the kids?" he asked.

"Out back catching up with Soos and Wendy," replied Stan, "The Northwest kid showed up just before you."

"They need to know what's happening," said Ford, mopping his brow, "Tell them there's a family meeting in ten minutes."

He looked down at himself and cringed.

"I'm gonna take a shower and meet you out the front..."

* * *

"Everyone who went up there is dead?!" exclaimed Dipper.

The Pines family, plus Soos, Wendy and Pacifica Northwest, had gathered on the front porch of the Shack. Soos had brought the RV around and Stan was packing provisions into the big vehicle. The sun was going down - it would soon be dark.

"For the most part," replied Ford gravely, "A few people got away, myself included, but the vast majority of people..."

Wendy clutched her head.

"Ford, my friends were up there," she said, "Did you see..."

"The one with the purple hair, what's her name..."

"Tambry."

"Yes, her," said Ford, "I know she survived. As for the rest of them...I'm sorry, they didn't make it. It was impossible to help them."

" _God..._ " breathed Wendy, burying her head in her hands.

"If any of you have family or friends still in town," added Ford, "Let them know now. Wendy, Pacifica, if you want to go home you're welcome to try, but the military seems to be blocking off the roads into town."

"Can you still get out?" asked Pacifica.

"Yes, the stream of army traffic is only going one way," said Ford, "For now, anyway."

"I've gotta call Candy and Grenda!" exclaimed Mabel, pulling out her phone.

"I'm calling Dad," added Wendy, doing the same.

Pacifica said nothing but produced her phone regardless. She speed-dialled her father and her face quickly shifted into a grimace.

"He's turned his phone off," she grunted.

"Are you sure he wasn't at Horshell?" Dipper asked, trying and failing to broach the subject sensitively.

"I would have seen him," shrugged Ford, "You don't miss a moustache like his."

"I hope you're right," grunted Pacifica.

Wendy hung up her phone.

"Dad's already bugging out," she said, "Told me to make my own way to hills - keep them from getting us all if they catch us."

"Whose _them_?" asked Soos.

"Aliens, the Feds, Bigfoot, Soviet paratroopers," shrugged Wendy, "Dad's not picky."

"I told Candy and Grenda," said Mabel, putting away her own phone, "They're heading out with Candy's mom."

"Will they be safe?" asked Ford.

"With Candy's mom?" replied Mabel, "They'll be _fine_."

"Alright, we're stocked up!" yelled Stan, "Everybody in!"

"You two tagging along?" Ford asked Wendy and Pacifica.

"Well I'm not gonna flee on my own, am I?" replied Wendy.

"I don't even know where my parents are," shrugged Pacifica.

Ford nodded as they walked over to the RV.

"Alright, road trip!" exclaimed Mabel, "We're going to...uh...far away!"

She smiled, attempting to raise everybody else's spirits. The attempt did not seem to succeed.

* * *

" _...reminder that Governor Montgomery Smith has advised everybody to stay at home if possible and to keep to roads open for the National Guard. In Washington, the White House has issued a statement regarding the killings at the landing sites. The statement reads; 'these aliens have, when offered a peaceful greeting by our people, opted to engage us in disgraceful aggression. Our military, the finest in the world, will now show them the error of their ways.' Finally, back in Trenton, the Associated Press has concluded another interview with Professor Pierson regarding the origin of the aliens, which he has confirmed come from Mars..."_

"Martians, huh?" said Stan, "Would you believe it?"

"At this stage, Stanley, I'd believe just about everything," sighed Ford.

Stan was driving the RV through the wooded back-roads of Gravity Falls. A small, haphazard convoy had formed behind them, but the road was hardly packed - Stan knew the best ways to avoid traffic from his lifetime of extralegal activities.

"Did you...did you check if Soos called Melody?" asked Stan.

"Soos!" Ford turned and shouted down the RV, "Did you call Melody?"

"Yeah dude!" replied Soos, "Still in Portland! She's trying to get a train to Canada!"

"Good!" Ford called back, "Last I heard nothing had landed there!"

He turned around.

"Do you think they have an agreement with Canada?" asked Stan.

" _Stanley._ "

Stan chuckled.

"Slow down, looks like a National Guard checkpoint," said Ford, squinting.

"I see 'em, I see 'em..."

It was a small checkpoint at a fork in the road manned by a half-dozen riflemen and an officer with a clipboard. The officer held out his hand officiously, gesturing for the RV to stop. Stan shook his head and cursed under his breath, but he complied regardless. He rolled down the window as they drew to a halt.

"What seems to be the problem, officer?" he asked.

"Sir, Governor Smith has given us strict instructions," said the officer, "Nobody enters or exits Roadkill County without written permission from the National Guard. Please return to your home immediately and clear the road for military traffic."

"What, and wait for my family to eaten by meteor men?" demanded Stan, "My niece and nephew, sir, they have their whole lives ahead of them..."

"Not my problem," snapped the officer, "Turn the car around or you will be in violation of..."

"Sir, there's another one!" shouted a guardsman, "Looks...looks like one of ours?"

A humvee sped down the other road. It was very much worse for wear, covered in scorch marks with a front wheel that looked like it might come off at any moment. The remains of a soldier hung from the mounted machine gun, his helmet and body armour melted into his charred skeleton. It skidded to a halt at the checkpoint, and the driver - a dirty and wild-eyed corporal - leaned out.

"Everybody get out of here!" he exclaimed.

"What unit are you, soldier?" demanded the officer, "Why aren't you at your post?"

"B Company," replied the soldier, "But I..."

"And _where_ , might I ask, is the _rest_ of B Company?" asked the officer obnoxiously.

"I _am_ B Company," spat the soldier, "The rest of us got wiped out on the hill. They ripped us to pieces, lieutenant!"

"Did you try to advance on them?" asked Ford, "I thought you were maintaining a cordon!"

"We were," replied the corporal, " _But they ain't cordoned anymore._ "

Suddenly, a strange and terrible sound echoed over the trees. It was a long, low tone, that suddenly and jarring transformed into a screech. The soldier paled and leaned back into his humvee.

"I'm going," he said.

"You stay right where you are!" bellowed the officer, "This is dereliction of duty and you will answer for it! _Stay where you are!_ "

"I don't give a shit," muttered the corporal.

He floored the pedal and sped off down the road, nearly running over the officer on his way.

"Did anybody get his name?!" thundered the officer, " _Did anybody get his name?!_ "

"Sir!" exclaimed one of his men, pointing down the road the humvee had come from.

Stan and Ford looked in the direction the soldier was pointing, and Ford's face drained of all colour.

A machine towered above the pine trees, dominating the skyline. It stood on three legs, topped by a strange round shape that was dominated by twin orbs that looked almost like the eyes of an insect. The unmistakable nozzle of the Heat Ray could be seen under these orbs, and behind the gigantic tripod there was nothing but fire. It made a step forward, and the terrible sound echoed across the countryside once more.

"That guy had the right idea," snapped Stan, releasing the handbrake, "Forget this!"

He floored the accelerator and the RV lunged forward, heading down the road out of Gravity Falls. The line of vehicles behind followed, leaving the spluttering officer and his men in their wake.

"What are you doing?!" he bellowed, "The Governor has ordered...you can't just... _this is anarchy! Anarchy!_ "

"Sir, get do-"

The Heat Ray swept over the checkpoint and wiped it from the face of the Earth.

The RV sped down the road, Stan forgetting all pretence of following the speed limit. Ford leaned out the window and looked behind, watching the tripod advance behind them. It was at least slower than them, but it may very well have been holding back to destroy everything in its path in detail.

"Don't you have anything that can deal with that?" Wendy shouted from behind.

"I didn't have time to grab anything before I left!" replied Ford.

"Yeah, well maybe if you hadn't showered..." growled Stan.

"I was covered in the ashes of half the town, Stanley!" snapped Ford, "What was I _supposed_ to do?!"

"Something's coming up on the left!" cried Dipper.

Stan glanced out his window and cringed. Next to him, Ford's eyes widened. It was a second tripod, moving up from the direction of the town. Behind it was a blazing inferno - Ford reckoned that anybody who wasn't already escaping Gravity Falls wasn't going to. In the distance, he swore he could hear the wail of an air raid siren.

"Can this thing go any faster?" he barked.

"I'm giving it all it's got, Stanford!" replied Stan.

Ford looked ahead. Another intersection was approaching - they were nearing the main road out of the county. There had been a military checkpoint there, but it had clearly been abandoned in a hurry - the only thing the soldiers had taken with them were their guns. An army truck blocked the road heading into town, but the RV had an unobstructed path.

"We get on that road, we're clear," said Ford.

"Just shut up and let me concentrate!" snapped Stan, clutching the wheel.

He turned and shouted to the back of the RV.

"Everybody hold on!"

The RV quickly reached the intersection. Stan applied the handbrake and yanked the wheel - the RV lurched violently as it skidded to the right. There was a loud crash as somebody fell over, but Stan couldn't afford to pay it much attention. As soon as the RV was facing in the right direction, Stan released the brake and put his foot down. The RV rocketed off down the road.

"Alright," said Ford, wiping his brow, "We're clear..."

There was a sudden crash from behind. Ford leaned out the window and looked back. A long, black limousine had crashed past the army truck, pushing it aside. It now blocked the road from which the RV had come, leaving most of the cars that had followed them trapped. The occupants of the cars were already climbing out, trying to escape on foot - Ford recognised the Valentinos, Bud Gleeful and Sprott the local farmer among them - but it was entirely fruitless. The Heat Ray swept through, igniting tree, car and person without discrimination.

He was not the only one looking back. Pacifica was looking out the back window at the limo following them, her fists slowly clenching.

"Northwest," she said, "That...that's my parents' limo...they just..."

"Don't think about it," said Ford, "Just don't think about it."

"Did...did anyone else make it?" asked Mabel, holding an icepack over Dipper's cheek.

"We'll know when we hit Hirschville," replied Stan, "The roads out of Gravity Falls converge there - at least they do if you're heading to the coast. We'll stop there for gas and then head for the Willamette. Might be able to lose them over the river..."

He glanced back.

"You should get some sleep for now," he said, "It's still a ways to go."

"Stan," asked Soos, "Do you think we're gonna make it?"

"Of course we are," reassured Ford, "We always do in this family."

He hoped he didn't sound as unsure as he felt.

The RV drove south-west, joining a slowly forming stream of vehicles heading away from the Martians as fast as they possibly could. Above them, the night sky was tinged with red.

* * *

[1] A quotation of The War of the Worlds in an adaption of The War of the Worlds. My god, I've created a paradox.

[2] For military tech nerds, I'm thinking these are either M113s or Strykers, but it's remarkably hard to find out what the National Guard actually _use_ on the internet. For people who don't care about this...hi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee Preston you're kind of a douche


	4. IV: Exodus

**IV: Exodus**

_And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. - Revelations 6:8 (KJV)_

_"...confirmed fighting in the east of the state between the invaders and the National Guard. Communication beyond the Pacific Northwest is difficult at this time, however we are informed that the President has ordered the immediate mobilisation of the military, and that Army and Marine forces have been dispatched to hold the Willamette River. Widespread rioting and looting has consumed major cities, notably Portland and Seattle, and authorities have advised those in the affected areas to remain indoors..._ "

The drive through the night had been along and slow. Whilst the rest of the family and their friends had gotten whatever fitful sleep they could in the night, Stan and Ford had taken turns driving the RV, swapping every few hours to let the other sleep. It was twilight now, and they were approaching Hirschville - a small town known mostly for its railway junction and petrol station. It was the last stop before the great Willamette River; normally an hour's drive from Hirschville, but with hundreds fleeing from eastern Oregon on a single road, the travel time would probably increase dramatically.

Presently they came upon an open area where a convoy of army fuel trucks had gathered. They were flagging down vehicles as they approached - a soldier flagged down Ford as he drove up.

Ford rolled down the window, giving the soldier his most unimpressed face.

"Is there a good reason for this holdup?" he asked.

"We're your gas station, Mac," grunted the soldier, "How many you riding with?"

Ford quickly counted up the occupants of the RV.

"Seven."

The soldier checked a clipboard.

"Yeah, I'll say you're about at capacity," he said.

"Capacity?" demanded Stan.

"Yeah, we're making people pool together," shrugged the soldier, "It's a waste of gas for one guy to ride alone in his car if three people are walking, you know?"

"Good move," nodded Ford, "Now where do I park this thing?"

"Just next to the tanker there," replied the soldier, pointing to one of the trucks.

Ford gave a thumbs up, moving the RV forward and parking next to the truck. A crew of volunteers - some military, some civilian - ran alongside with a hose.

"Diesel?" one called.

"Diesel!" Stan called back.

The crew quickly set to work fuelling up the RV.

Dipper, Mabel and Wendy took the opportunity to climb out of the vehicle, stretching their legs on the grass by the roadside. The air smelt of ash, and to the east they could see black clouds filling the air - but in the west, the sky was clear. There seemed to be hope, far away though it was.

"Okay," said Mabel, rubbing her hands through her hair, "Last night was _pretty_ bad, but I think we're past the worst."

"You okay, Wendy?" asked Dipper, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Wendy swallowed but nodded.

"They're Corduroys," she said, "They'll handle themselves, trust me."

"...I don't care what your excuse is, Corporal, that Humvee is _army property!_ "

They looked over to the right, recognising the corporal from the previous night. He was standing next to his clapped-out humvee, arguing with an officer as other soldiers clambered all over it, preparing it for combat.

"Captain, nothing's gonna stop those things!" yelled the corporal, gesticulating to the smoke in the east, "The only way anybody survives is if they outrun them! We go west or we die!"

"Corporal, whether you go west or not is beyond my damn control," snarled the captain, "But that humvee can be used to slow them down..."

" _Slow them down?!_ " bellowed the corporal, "We had a whole company up there and they didn't even stumble over us! It's not war, captain; they're wiping us out like ants!"

" _Dismissed_ , corporal," snapped the captain.

He climbed into the humvee and it drove away.

"You don't understand!" called the corporal, "You're all gonna die!"

He yelled in frustration, tearing off his helmet and throwing it to the ground.

"We should help him," said Mabel, "He needs a ride."

"We don't even know who he is, Mabel," reminded Dipper.

"He's someone who needs help!" replied Mabel, "We can't just leave him!"

"Plus he's got an M16," shrugged Wendy, "If society falls apart in the next few days, that'll be pretty useful."

" _Wendy!_ " exclaimed Dipper.

Wendy smirked and shrugged.

Not far away, Ford, Soos and Pacifica were watching as the army team refuelled the tank. Ford could hear several soldiers at the checkpoint wondering when they'd be sent to fight the Martians - he wanted to tell them what they would be in for when they were, but he decided against it.

"You!"

Quite suddenly, a man - Mr. Poolcheck, Ford realised - marched up to them and jammed his finger in Pacifica's face. He was backed by several others - all townsfolk from Gravity Falls.

"What?! What are you..." demanded Pacifica.

"Your father got our friends _killed!_ " snarled Poolcheck.

"Don't you have it good enough being richer than all of us?!" spat Gabe Benson.

"Not cool," added Tad Strange, although he was smiling vacantly as he always seemed to, "Not cool."

"Hey, back off dudes!" snapped Soos, "She can't help who her parents are!"

"Would you say that about Hitler's kids?!" bellowed another man who Ford didn't recognise.

"Now that's a bit extreme, Reginald," said Tad.

"Extreme nothing!" shouted a woman, "This is the apocalypse! Let's give her a taste of the Northwests' own medicine!"

" _Back off!_ "

A pair of soldiers had turned up, aiming their weapons at the group abusing Pacifica.

"Back off! I will not warn you again!" thundered one.

The group muttered angrily to themselves but quickly dispersed. As soon as they were gone, Pacifica ran back into the RV.

The soldier shook his head.

"Mob justice," he grunted, "We had to stop some guys from stringing up a priest - they said he hadn't given them enough warning before Revelations, would you believe it?"

Ford nodded grimly.

"The sooner we get moving, the better," he sighed.

* * *

The normal radio announcer stopped broadcasting an hour after they refuelled, replaced by a series of pre-recorded evacuation messages. The last messages he had broadcast were not reassuring - air raids sirens blaring in the background, he had announced that a threat now existed to Portland. He had been repeating evacuation instructions - then, just after the horrible cry of the Martian war machines, there had been a sudden thump, and then nothing.

Another nameless casualty of the invasion, Ford thought.

The corporal's name was Howard Wells[1]. Before today, he had been a member of the Oregon Army National Guard's 162nd Regiment - a regiment that, for the most part, now no longer existed. In hushed, haunted tones he had described the fate of his company.

"They were building 'em throughout the day," he said, "We never saw them - everything was done with machines. Major wanted us to saturate them with artillery but command wanted us to watch over them. Honestly don't think the artillery would even have done anything."

He swallowed, licking dry lips.

"They hit us just before sundown," he continued, "It wasn't a battle. We were swept aside. Nothing we had would do anything to those tripods. Must've lasted something like thirty seconds, all-up. I just ran - didn't even notice the gunner on the humvee was dead until halfway to Hirschville."

He held his head in his hands.

"Nothing," he said, " _Nothing_ is going to stop them, 'cept maybe the ocean. We have to reach the coast."

The going west was still slow, which did nothing to sooth anybody's nerves. They had joined a line of traffic about a mile long, crawling down the main road to the sea. Occasionally, local police and military units would direct them along, but for the most part, there was nothing but cars.

At one point, a squadron of fighter jets screamed overhead. Dipper optimistically suggested that they might have a chance against the tripods. Nobody really believed him.

Just before midday, they finally came in sight of the Willamette.

"Damn it, what the hell is going on?" demanded Stan.

The eastern bank of the Willamette had been fortified. Trenches had been dug along it as far as the eye could see, all facing the way they'd came from. These trenches were augmented by the massive forms of main battle tanks, and on the far side of the river, artillery pieces were being prepared. In the far distance, hanging just over the treeline, were a dozen Apache gunships. All this left only a narrow passage for the fleeing civilians. This was far from the only problem.

As they passed the trenches, they came across another officer directing traffic.

"Larger vehicles, pull over to the right please!" he shouted into a megaphone, "The bridge is not going to take your weight, you're going to have to walk!"

"The heck I am!" snarled Stan, rolling down his window, "You're not getting my RV, hear me?!"

"Sir," said the officer, "I understand your reservations, but this is the only bridge over the Willamette that hasn't been blown up by the Army. We can't risk it. You need to pull over."

"What, I have to walk because you idiots blew up all the bridges?" demanded Stan.

"United States Marine Corps, sir," said the officer testily, "We weren't involved. Now get your vehicle out of the way, we need to keep the column moving!"

"Stan, just do what he says!" snapped Ford.

Stan growled and pulled over to the right. He stopped when he was out of the way, turning off the engine and pulling the keys out of the ignition.

"I'm keeping these," he said, climbing out of the RV.

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily.

The scene outside was chaotic. While a lucky few people had been allowed to pass, many more had been forced to abandon their cars and walk. A massive crowd of humanity was swarming over the small bridge - they looked like scurrying ants, but far less organised.

"Well, this is just perfect," growled Howard.

"Might as well get started," shrugged Wendy, "We've got a long walk ahead of us."

They were just making their way towards the bridge when they heard the sound of a horn. Ford turned - the Northwests limo was parked next to the marine officer, and Preston Northwest was having a vocal argument with the military man.

"What do you mean, I can't take this over?!" snarled Preston, "This is _my_ automobile and I intend to keep it!"

"Sir, the bridge cannot take too much weight," sighed the officer, "We can't risk it. Please pull over and leave your vehicle."

"I'll do no such thing!" bellowed Preston.

"Sir, we are facing a serious crisis..."

"Which is exactly why I need to go! Can't you see my wife is on board?!"

Ford shook his head.

"He's not going to move unless somebody shows him sense," he said, "I'm going to go talk to him. I'll meet you on the other side. Corporal, you can back me up?"

"I guess," shrugged Howard.

"Wait, no!" exclaimed Stan, "We need to get going! If that rich idiot wants to be a problem, let him, we've got to..."

"If he keeps up what he's doing a lot of people are going to end up dead," replied Ford, "I can't let that happen, Stan. Besides, we've got time. I'll only be five minutes after you, I swear."

"Stan, Grunkle Ford's just trying to help people," added Mabel.

"Don't help him, Mabel," grunted Stan.

He sighed and shook his head.

"Fine, five minutes," he said, "I'll meet you on the other side."

He shook his head, walking on towards the bridge. Soos and Pacifica followed (the latter quickly, as if she expected Ford to ask her to stay and talk to her father), leaving Dipper, Mabel and Wendy behind.

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay, Great Uncle Ford?" asked Dipper, "I can help you if..."

"Dipper, I'm just talking to someone," replied Ford, "I'll be alright. You just get going."

"Come on, man," said Wendy, "He'll be fine."

Dipper swallowed and headed towards the bridge. Mabel and Wendy followed - the former grinned and waved goodbye.

"What do you want me to do?" asked Howard.

"Impress on him how dangerous those things are," replied Ford.

They walked over to the limo.

"Uh, sir, please move along," said the officer.

"I think I can help you," said Ford, "Mr. Northwest, I've seen firsthand what those aliens can do."

"And that concerns me how?" asked Preston.

"They _slaughter_ people, Northwest," replied Howard, "They don't care who you are or where you come from. That Heat Ray kills you just as much if you're rich as it does if you're poor. The only way you live is if you _go west_. And you don't get to do that unless you do what the nice jarhead tells you to do."

Preston's wife, Priscilla, narrowed her eyes.

"Are you a _socialist?_ " she demanded.

Howard buried his face in his hands.

"You didn't tell me they were _this dumb_ ," he said to Ford.

"Contact! _Contact!_ "

Ford turned and watched in horror as the tripods appeared. They marched over the hillside in the distance, their Heat Rays tearing through the back of the refugee column. Around him, others regarded their arrival, and the orderly evacuation suddenly turned into a rout. People leapt from their cars and charged headlong towards the bridge.

"Command, this is Fox Three! Tripods sighted, requesting artillery and air bombardment!" Ford heard an officer scream into his radio.

"Ford, we have to go!" Howard yelled frantically.

"Mr. Northwest!" Ford yelled at the businessman, "You have to leave the limo!"

Preston looked back at the tripods and then forward at the bridge.

"I can make it," he said to himself.

"What?"

" _I can make it._ "

Preston floored the accelerator, and the limo shot forward. Ford and Howard dived to the ground in opposite directions as the limo thundered towards the crowded bridge. Some managed to dive out of the way of the rich man's car - some did not.

" _You idiot!_ " screamed Ford.

The limo made it about a quarter of the way over the bridge as people leapt out of its path into the river. Then, with a sickening crash, it slammed into the wooden supports along the side and slid over the side, tumbling down into the river. A chunk of the supports fell after it, and the bridge began to buckle.

"Howard!" cried Ford, climbing to his feet, "Howard, we have to..."

He looked around. Howard was nowhere to be seen - Ford wondered if he had been swept away in the tide of humanity now fleeing towards the bridge. A dark part of him wondered if he'd been trampled.

Ford ran for the bridge as artillery shells screamed overhead. The Apaches followed after them, their rockets firing and half-deafening the crowd below. It was worsened tenfold as the tanks opened up - Ford wondered if his ears would begin to bleed.

Near to the other side of the bridge, Ford's family were nearly on the other side. The bridge was shaking under the weight of hundreds of people. Dipper was clutching Mabel's arm, knowing that if he let go he'd certainly lose her - he felt Wendy's grip on the back of his shirt, and he could just about see Soos ahead (it was hard to miss him).

Suddenly the bridge jolted violently and Dipper fell onto his face. He looked behind him and realised that one of the central girders of the bridge had collapsed. All around him, people were losing their grip and sliding into the river - Mabel had grabbed onto the side of the bridge and was hanging on for dear life.

"Dipper!" she yelled, "Grab the ledge!"

Dipper nodded, swinging himself over to the side and clutching the railing. He looked back, and noticed with relief that Wendy had managed to do the same thing. They climbed up as quickly as they could, soon reaching the top.

"How the heck is Ford getting across that?" demanded Dipper, pointing at the wreckage of the bridge.

"He'll think of something!" replied Wendy, "Just run, man!"

"But..."

"Look, there's nothing we can do except keep moving!" exclaimed Wendy, "That's what Ford would want!"

Dipper looked back again, then swallowed and kept moving, dragging Mabel on behind.

With the bridge gone, the crowd had changed its direction, sweeping down towards the banks of the river. Ford joined them - he reckoned he was strong enough to swim the Willamette - the only question was if he was fast enough.

Behind him, the marines continued to blast away at the tripods to no apparent effect. They were marching closer and closer, missiles and shells exploding on their metal surfaces but doing no damage. Despite this, they continued to fire, determined to win time for the refugees to flee.

Ford leapt into the cold water - he noticed that some had found boats and were trying to row across. It was almost impossible to make headway against the hundreds piling into the water, and he soon found himself clutching one of the intact bridge supports in an attempt to stop himself from being forced under by the panicked crowd. His trenchcoat was ripped away from him in the chaos - he barely even noticed.

Suddenly, the tripods came to a halt. The Heat Rays stopped firing, and for a moment Ford thought the marine weapons had had some effect.

Then, one by one, the massed tripods began to hiss.

A plume of ink black smoke began to waft out of growths on the undersides of the tripods - canisters, Ford realised. They drifted over the marine positions, choking them in thick, black substance.

Suddenly, the marines on the defence line began to cough and splutter. Ford watched as they ran from their trenches, many clutching their eyes. Red spots began to appear on their skin - many doubled over and began to vomit nasty, purple-red sludge from their lungs. Some marines ran for the riverbank in blind panic, blood pouring from their noses and ears. Most never made it, collapsing into the grass and slowly fading away.

Ford's blood ran cold as he realised what was happening.

"Gas!" he bellowed, " _Gas!_ "

The tripods began to advance again, the Heat Rays coming back to life and slicing through the tanks and gunships. One Apache, turned into a fireball by the ray, span into the remains of the bridge, sending wood splinters and other shrapnel down onto the crowd. Ford was forced from his pillar and slammed into an upturned boat.

He glanced from the approaching smoke and the tripods to the boat.

"Any chance you can get," he muttered.

He sank into the water and swam under the boat, surfacing in the small air pocket beneath and clutching the sides as hard as he could. He was being forced from side to side as the boat was knocked and pushed by the crowd - several times he found his head slammed into the sides. The screams around him began to turn into choking, and one by one, they faded away.

Ford didn't know how long he had been under, but eventually he realised he was running out of air. He breathed deeply before turning over the boat, half expecting to be instantly fried by the Heat Ray.

He was floating downstream, a single living man among a mass of dead that clogged the river. In the distance he could see the wreckage of the bridge, bracketed on both sides by the wreckage of military vehicles and the blazing infernos where once trees had been.

There was a sudden flash of brilliant light from the south. Ford closed his eyes, waiting for the glare to subside - when he opened them, he could see a mushroom cloud rising over what he guessed was Eugene.

With the last of his strength, Ford climbed into the boat. He collapsed roughly onto it, no doubt bruising and scarring himself on the wood, and drifted into blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

The column of people shuffled west, few people saying so much as a word. They were the lucky ones - those who had managed to cross the bridge before it collapsed. As they tended to do, the tripods behind had stopped to destroy the defences along the Willamette in detail - this, at least, gave them a chance to escape.

Stan led his family and their friends along the road. He looked haggard, and he had a cut over his forehead that Dipper and Mabel privately feared might become infected - he had said not a word since they escaped.

Pacifica was walking next to Mabel, her eyes fixed to the ground. Mabel turned to her, swallowed, and decided to venture talking to her.

"You wanna talk about it?" she asked.

"I can't believe they'd do that," said Pacifica, "How many people are dead because of them? How..."

"Hey, Paz," said Mabel, putting an arm on her shoulder, "It's not your fault. You don't have to..."

"They're my family, Mabel," replied Pacifica, "They were all I had and now..."

She shook her head.

"Sad thing is, I don't even miss them," she said bitterly, "Some family, right?"

"Hey, kid."

Pacifica looked up. Stan was looking back at her, his face serious.

"Just 'cause you're born with someone doesn't make them your family," he said, "I was my born with my parents and god knows I don't consider _them_ family."

"But you can't just..."

"You _can_ choose your family, kid," interrupted Stan, "After all, I chose mine."

He shook his head and turned away again.

"And I'm gonna keep what's left of it _intact_."

"A lot of things are changing right now, Paz," said Mabel, "Compared to aliens, changing your family isn't really that big of a deal."

Pacifica swallowed and tried her best to smile. Mabel smiled back and took her hand.

Just behind them, Dipper hazarded another glance to the rear.

"He's not coming, is he?" he sighed.

"Dude," said Soos, "I'm sure he's fine. Ford's been through worse."

* * *

[1] A combination of H. G. Wells and Howard Koch, the guy who wrote the radio play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Soos, you have no idea what Ford's getting into...


	5. V: Thunder Child

**V: Thunder Child**

_It is magnificent, but it is not war. - General Pierre Bosquet_

The sight was utterly surreal.

An endless stream of refugees stumbled out of the interior, heading down the road towards Newport as if they were in a dream. Some carried heavy bags, all the worldly possessions they could carry - others had shed everything but the barest essentials. They were rich businessmen, doctors, shopkeepers, labourers, farmers, loggers, soldiers from shattered battalions and government officials with nothing left to govern. As one great and miserable body, they suffered together.

Newport was completely ill-equipped to handle the massive flow of refugees - but it was one of the last ports still available on the Pacific Northwestern coastline. River access from Portland had been cut when the city fell - Seattle had been destroyed by an American nuclear weapon. In any case, trying to divert the crowd to another town would have been suicide - Newport would have to do.

Every sizable boat that could be found had been put on evacuation detail. The navy and the coast guard were working tirelessly to fill every vessel to its maximum capacity, pushing tired and hungry refugees onto overcrowded ships in what promised to be a nightmare voyage to Anchorage. There was no difficulty motivating people to board - better to suffer at sea than to die on land.

Out to sea, the navy had provided destroyers and cruisers to cover Newport - they had full authorisation to shell Newport if the tripods entered the town.

Stan and his family were in the overcrowded harbour, waiting in a long line to board one of the evacuation ships. A storm was blowing in, and the setting sun stained the clouds red. It looked like Hell was following at their heels - and it was hard to say that it wasn't.

"Do you think our parents are okay?" Mabel asked, looking up at the red sky.

"I dunno, Mabel," said Dipper wearily, "I don't wanna think about that right now."

There was a loud rumbling. Dipper nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Sorry," said Soos, "That was me. I'm starving, dudes."

"Not much we can do about that," sighed Wendy.

They looked tiredly over to one of the other lines. A small passenger ferry had cast off and was sailing out of the harbour - those still in line at her pier were now waiting for the next boat to be docked in numb silence. Dipper looked at a bedraggled, filthy and injured man in a crumpled suit and realised he recognised him.

"Is that the _governor?_ " he asked.

Wendy squinted and nodded.

"Yeah, Montgomery Smith," she said, "Dad voted for him. Geez, he's a mess."

"I thought they would have flown him out first," said Pacifica.

"Maybe they tried," shrugged Dipper, "It'd explain why he looks so bad."

"What're you kids talkin' about?" asked Stan, his voice somewhat flat.

"Grunkle Stan, that's Governor Smith!" replied Mabel.

"Who the heck cares?" shrugged Stan, "He's nothin' now, just like the rest of us."

Any reply Mabel might have made was interrupted by the loud clanging of a bell.

"Alright, ferry's docked!" somebody yelled from the front of the line, "Board in single file! Do not push! If you push, you will be sent to the back!"

The line ambled forward. Dipper looked ahead at the ship - it was old and looked somewhat clapped out, but he supposed it was better than nothing.

"Dipper, Mabel, you kids stay with me," said Stan, "If anything happened to you, your parents would kill me."

The minutes passed agonisingly slowly as the coast guard sent people aboard. Eventually, the family neared the front. Dipper could make out the weary coast guardsman directing the line - he carried an elderly rifle and deep black bags outlined his eyes. He couldn't have been older than Dipper and Mabel.

Pacifica boarded first, then Soos. As Wendy was clambered up the gangway, the coast guardsman stopped the line.

"Are you together?" he asked.

"Family," nodded Stan.

"We've only got room for two more," said the coast guardsman wearily, "I'll put you in front of the line for the next one, but you can't..."

"Send the kids on," interrupted Stan, "I'll wait here."

"Grunkle Stan, no!" exclaimed Mabel, "We've gotta stick together!"

"I'll be fine, Mabel," said Stan, "Now get up that gangway and..."

" _That's what Ford said!_ " shouted Mabel.

There was a long silence.

"Sir, we _really_ need to get this ship moving," said the coast guardsman.

Stan put his hands on Mabel's shoulders.

"That's why I need to you go, Mabel," he said, "I already might've lost Ford. I won't lose you either. I know it's hard, but I need you to do this for me."

"Mabel," said Dipper, voice cracking a little, "We've gotta go."

"Do this for me, Mabel," said Stan, "Please."

Mabel swallowed and nodded.

"I love you, Grunkle Stan," she said.

"I love you too," replied Stan, his eyes visibly watering, "Both of you."

He pulled his niece and nephew into a hug.

" _Graham!_ What the hell is the holdup?!" a sailor bellowed from the ship.

"Nothing, sir!" the coast guardsman yelled back.

"Well then get them aboard, we're running out of damn time!"

Stan let go, swallowing heavily.

"Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to step back," the coast guardsman said gently.

"Yeah, I'm stepping back," nodded Stan, stepping off the gangway, "Go on, kids. I'll see you in Alaska."

Hesitantly, Dipper and Mabel walked up the gangway, turning their back on their Grunkle. Deep within his heart, Stan knew that they were leaving him for the last time, but he put on a brave face for them.

"I'm sorry, sir, I really am," said the coast guardsman.

"Don't apologise, kid, you're doing what you have to," replied Stan.

In the distance, he heard the distinctive roar of the Martian tripods. He sighed heavily and turned his back.

"Well, that's it," he said, "I'm gonna go take a walk."

He walked slowly away.

* * *

The ferry was massively overcrowded, to the point that Dipper wondered how it was going to stay afloat, but the twins caught up with Wendy, Soos and Pacifica and managed to find a place next to the railing. That was not the only thing they found.

"Candy?" exclaimed Mabel, "Grenda?"

"Mabel!" bellowed Grenda, pulling her friend into a hug.

"We both thought you were dead!" said Candy.

"Is there anybody else with you?" asked Wendy, "Like my family, maybe?"

"We were part of a small group leaving town," replied Candy, "There are...not many left."

She held out her arm. Old Man McGucket, Shandra Jimenez and Gideon were slumped by the railing, looking absolutely exhausted.

"What about your par-" began Soos.

Wendy put a hand on Soos' shoulder.

"You probably shouldn't ask," she said quietly.

Soos nodded, looking at his feet.

"It's been a nightmare," said Shandra hollowly, "We've lost just about everything. If McGucket hadn't been there, we'd be dead."

"You can eat jus' about anythin' when you're desperate," shrugged McGucket.

"Society's breakin' down out there," added Gideon, his voice shaking terribly, "We found th-the guy commandin' the troops at the Willamette. His...his jeep was looted. I-I dunno if they shot him or he shot..."

He shuddered, closing his bloodshot eyes.

"Yeah, it's been pretty bad," said Grenda, somewhat redundantly.

" _TRIPODS!_ "

The sudden scream alerted the entire boat. Dipper leaned over the railing, looking back.

The tripods had entered Newport, their Heat Rays blasting everything and everyone in sight. The mass of refugees on the docks had seen them coming, and were pushing forward in a terrified rush towards the water. One ferry had just cast off and was fleeing towards open sea - it was the one serving the line Montgomery Smith had been waiting in, Dipper realised.

A tripod burst onto the docks, its Heat Ray burning away at the panicking crowd. It aimed up and fired its ray at the wooden ship leaving harbour - it burst into a massive fireball, spraying splinters all over the people leaping into the sea. Behind the tripod, the thick black smoke was wafting over Newport, seeping onto the docks and dealing with those who had not been killed by the Heat Ray.

The tripod stopped firing its ray and marched forward. It's legs sunk into the water as it began to advance into the shallows - directly towards the evacuating boats. Two more followed, their massive legs creating enormous waves that pushed the few still alive in the water around them to the bottom.

"Well," said Candy, "We're dead."

"Dudes!" yelled Soos, pointing out to sea, "Look!"

A single destroyer was breaking from the massed fleet of warships at sea, advancing at speed towards the oncoming tripods. The ship was a strange looking contraption, geometric and low in the water, with a long, prism-shaped tower dominating the middle of the vessel. It looked like something out of a science-fiction drawing, yet simultaneously bore a resemblance to a monitor of the nineteenth century. The ship sailed right past the fleeing boats, its turrets turning to bear on the enemy.

With a roar of gunfire, USS _Thunder Child_ positioned itself in the way of the advancing tripods.[1]

The tripods reacted quickly to _Thunder Child_ 's dramatic appearance, altering the course of their advance. The regular guns of the mighty destroyer had little effect on the Martian war machines, but with a sudden, deafening roar, the _Thunder Child_ fired a front-mounted railgun into the lead tripod. It struck the war machine at several times the speed of sound and the terrible contraption was knocked down, falling backwards into sea and disappearing from sight.

"Did...did we actually destroy one of them?" exclaimed Wendy.

"Aw yeah!" cheered Soos, "Come on, _Thunder Child!_ _ **[2]**_ "

The refugees on the boat erupted into cheers, watching as the _Thunder Child_ continued to sail onwards.

The second tripod turned towards the destroyer and emitted its terrible black smoke. The smoke wafted over the _Thunder Child_ but it carried on regardless, its railgun firing a second line and blasting the tripod, taking it out of commission.

The third tripod stepped forward and aimed its Heat Ray at the fast approaching warship. It sounded its war-cry and fired - the command bridge burst into flames and exploded and much of the tower of the ship was burnt away, but the engines remained active. The tripod fired for a second time, and the railgun and frontal turrets exploded in plumes of fire.

It never got the chance to fire again. The bow of the _Thunder Child_ slammed into one of the tripod's legs - the tripod fell forward, crashing down onto the hull of the ship. With a mighty cacophony, the _Thunder Child_ 's magazine exploded - an enormous cascade of smoke and fire burst into the air as the valiant warship died, taking with it the tripod that it had knocked down.

The twisted heap of metal that had once been the Navy's most advanced warship slipped beneath the waves, the grinding of steel sounding almost like the agonised cries of a dying warrior. Far in the distance, the rest of the fleet fired their long-range missiles - the barrage came down upon Newport and wiped away what little remained of the town, but the rockets failed to have the same effect on the Martians that the _Thunder Child_ 's railgun had had, and the tripods were not visibly harmed.

Despite everything, _Thunder Child_ had done what she had set out to do. The refugee fleet was safe, now able to flee to Alaska without fear of attack.

There were no cheers now; there was barely even relief. Many on the boat simply collapsed in exhaustion, falling into a dreamless sleep as land slipped away behind them. As Dipper and Mabel stared back at the disappearing wreckage of Newport, they could not find it in themselves to say anything. They could find no words to describe how they felt. There are no words in the English language that could.

The town of Newport no longer existed. Those left by the boats would no longer be a part of the rout of humanity, and those few pockets that still tried in small fishing villages along the coast would be wiped out piecemeal. The army, the air force and the marine corps had been utterly annihilated - there was nothing and no-one left to stop the tripods.

The Earth belonged to the Martians.[3]

* * *

[1] _Thunder Child_ , in this story, is a Zumwalt-class destroyer.

[2] Jeff Wayne reference!

[3] Well, _America_ did. But come on, the quote's too good not to use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always hate it when War of the Worlds adaptions cut the Thunder Child.


	6. VI: Red Weed

**VI: Red Weed**

_Abandon all hope, you who enter here. - Dante Alighieri_

Ford's head stung as he woke up.

He was laying on a bed in a small, dark room that was covered in dust. The air was musty and stale, and he could just about smell meat cooking on an open fire. Clearly he'd been found and taken in by someone.

He pulled himself off the bed with great difficulty, clutching his head. Looking down, he found his skin to be coarse and burned, patches of it visibly peeling. He felt around for his glasses - finding them, he slipped them on, cringing as he realised how cracked the lenses were. He supposed it was better than nothing.

He stumbled through the door and found himself in a ransacked living room. Everything that wasn't nailed down was gone, leaving only the couch. A man in the tattered remains of a suit knelt down in the middle of the room, sitting next to an open fire and heating a tiny hunk of stringy meat on a makeshift spit.

"You're awake, huh?" he said, somewhat numbly.

"Who am I thanking for rescuing me?" asked Ford, sitting down next to the spit and warming his hands.

"Doctor Parsons," replied the man, "History academic at UC Berkeley."

"Berkeley?" quizzed Ford, "You're a long way from home."

"Ain't got no home in this world anymore, to quote Guthrie," sighed Parsons.

"Tripods ran through there, huh?" nodded Ford.

"Not just them," Parsons spat bitterly, "It was the government that finished it off."

He massaged his head with his hand.

"The tripods went through the army's defences like butter," he said, "Bowled right into San Francisco, into Oakland, into Berkeley...nothing could stop them. So they went right to the nuclear option."

He gazed into the fire.

"The whole Bay Area was saturation bombed with nuclear warheads," he continued, "Wiped everything off the map. Nothing will ever live there again, not by my estimate. And you know the worst part? Second wave of machines just stopped and repaired the ones damaged in the blasts. From what I heard, they didn't even need to replace the pilot."

He breathed in deeply.

"This is the Rapture, friend," he said, "This is what millennia of human greed and cruelty has gotten us. This is the Lord's doing - we've been found unworthy."

Ford stopped himself from arguing Parsons' point, deciding to ask a more pressing question.

"Listen, Dr. Parsons, I have family in Piedmont," he said, "If you made it out, do you think it's possible..."

Parsons shook his head miserably.

"Only reason I'm alive is because I was in Eugene for the summer," he said, "The bombings were the last things I managed to hear about on the radio before they all went off. As far as I know, organised society no longer exists."

"What about over the border?" asked Ford, "Canada, Mexico..."

"Beats the shit out of me," grunted Parsons.

He glanced towards the window.

"Look, we should get out of here," he said, "I've been here three days and I don't want to run into a patrol any time soon. Plus I've eaten all the goats out in the paddock..."

"A patrol?" quizzed Ford, "Like...infantry?"

"I wish," Parsons replied ruefully.

* * *

As night fell, Ford and Parsons left the little farmhouse and fled north through the fields. Parsons had mentioned trying to make it back up the Willamette Valley towards Salem, where they might be able to ransack food and supplies.

The world around them was changing.

As far as the eye could see, the earth was covered in a thick red weed. It consumed everything - fields, trees, roads, abandoned cars and trucks, houses, even streams were covered in red fungi that resembled the strange vegetation. Parsons told Ford that it had begun to spread within hours of the Martian conquest of the Willamette, and that it killed crops and often strangled and suffocated smaller animals and livestock. Ford postulated that this was a form of terraforming, that the Martians were trying to make the Earth resemble Mars - or perhaps what Mars once was. Parsons rebutted that the weed was just another punishment heaped on humanity by God - and as he watched the weed writhe and crawl without any visible aid from the wind, Ford wondered if he might be right.

Worse than the weed was the strange new Martian machine that had arrived after the tripods. It was an enormous, almost organic machine that scurried along the scarred landscape like a gigantic spider, and seemed not to be armoured with metal but instead possessed a thick, almost pussy hide that made Ford sick to look at. Whenever this monstrous creation encountered a human, it swept them up in a long, snake-like appendage that extended from the front of the machine - something in Ford's mind wanted to call it a tongue, uncomfortable though the comparison made him - and dragged them into its hull. What happened to them inside, nobody knew. Nobody wanted to know.

Ford was unlucky enough to witness a farmer consumed by the machine from a distance. The worst part, he decided afterwards, was the _sound_ \- it wasn't the terrifying cry of the tripod, instead it was an awful sucking, slobbering sound. Ford thought for a moment he could hear crunching bones, but decided he was far too far away from the machine to make out such noises. His mind must have been playing tricks on him.

After travelling all night, they finally reached Salem at daybreak. Very little remained of the state capitol - much of it was still on fire, and what wasn't on fire was in ruins. In the distance, they could see Martian tripods marching to and fro - they may have been on patrol, but Ford couldn't say for sure.

They followed the railway line towards Salem Depot, but as they arrived, it became clear that there would be no source of food or shelter there. The station building had mostly collapsed. A train was strewn about the yard like a discarded toy. The engine lay on its side; man's ruined colossus, thrown aside by the new masters of the Earth.

Ford looked to the left of the station, noticing an olive-green military tent.

"Seems like they missed that," he said, "Could be some food in there."

Parsons nodded, and they raced across the yard to the tent. Slowly and carefully, Ford crept inside.

There was no food. There were no supplies. All Ford could see was the form of an army officer, slumped over a collapsible desk with a pistol in his right hand. Everything else that might have been useful had been stripped from the tent, leaving only empty shelves and crates.

Ford crept forward, searching the officer in a last attempt to find something useful. He discovered that the man was a four-star general named Garrick[1] - perhaps he had been in command of the military in Oregon, or even the entire Pacific Northwest. It didn't matter now - what did matter was a half-eaten chocolate bar in his breast pocket.

Ford took the confectionary out and looked at it.

"Well," he said, "It's not the _worst_ thing I've ever eaten..."

Stopping only to pick up the general's gun, he walked back out of the tent, where Parsons was anxiously waiting.

"Well?" asked Parsons.

"This is all they had," replied Ford, holding up the chocolate.

"Alright, give it here," nodded Parsons, "I'll carry it."

Ford nodded handing him the bar. Parsons' eyes widened immediately as he shoved the bar into his mouth, gnawing hungrily at it as he tried to consume it as quickly as humanly possible.

"Parsons, what the hell?!" demanded Ford.

"That...that's payment," replied Parsons, swallowing down the last of the chocolate, "F-for saving your life."

"Saving my... _you've been eating goat meat for three days!_ " exclaimed Ford angrily, "If we're going to survive together, you're going to have to..."

The slobbering cry of the spider-like machine sounded over the rail yard. Ford grabbed Parsons and dove under one of the wrecked coaches as the sounds of scuttling legs approached.

"Oh god, this is it," breathed Parsons.

"Stay quiet," hissed Ford, "If you shout, you'll give away our position."

"No...no, this is what I said," said Parsons, shaking like a leaf, "This is judgement. This is the Lord's punishment, Stanford."

"Quiet down!" snarled Ford.

Parsons began to rock back and forth, loudly babbling an prayer.

"Dear Lord, forgive me, I knew not what I did! Please don't let them take me, God! _Please don't let them take me!_ "

Grinding his teeth together, Ford pulled the gun on Parsons.

"Parsons!" he growled, "I'm giving you until the count of three!"

" _Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..._ "

"One!"

" _...thy kingdom come - oh god! - they will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven..._ "

"Two!"

" _Give me this day my - please Lord, don't let it take me!_ "

Ford looked down at the gun, then up at Parsons. He shook his head - he wasn't so far gone as to shoot the panicking academic, but he knew he couldn't take him with him if he wanted to survive.

"I'm sorry, Parsons," he said, "But I have to go."

He darted out of the wreckage and scurried quickly to the rubble of the station, hiding behind a large pile of rock. As he did so, the processing machine lumbered into view, it's hideous tongue sweeping out towards the train.

" _Lead me not into temptation...deliver...deliver..._ "

The tongue grabbed Parsons, sweeping him up into the air. The academic began to scream as it drew him towards it's dark, pulsing maw. Ford stole a glance up at this cavity and dearly wished he hadn't - it was slimy and covered in strange lumps that wriggled and shifted seemingly at their own will - he could just about make out a dim red glow beyond.

" _Deliver me from evil! DELIVER ME FROM EVIL! PLEASE! DELIVER ME FROM EVIL!_ "

With a nasty sucking sound, the machine dragged Parsons into its maw. The man's screams transformed into screeches of terror - perhaps even agony. Then the slurping stopped, and all was quiet.

The machine cried out in it's strange growl once more. It turned and scuttled back out of the rail yard, and all was silent.

* * *

Two nights passed.

Ford scavenged around the outskirts of Salem, gathering what supplies he could - there were never more than scraps, and before long he felt utterly consumed by the feeling of hunger and thirst. He slept very little, motivated to keep moving by the constant threat of the tripods - or worse, the processing machine.

Finally he gave up on Salem and began the long and painful journey north again, back up the Willamette in the direction of Portland.

The red weed covered everything in all directions - even the mountains in the distance were coated in this strange red substance. The air felt wrong, the world around him _smelt_ wrong. He was in an alien world with no escape.

He was hungry, he was tired, he was tired. Yet he was also determined to survive, and that alone drove him onwards on his odyssey through Hell on Earth.

* * *

In the end, the evacuation ships didn't go to Anchorage.

Instead, several hundred refugees and coast guardsmen were unceremoniously dumped in Ninilchik, a town of almost nine-hundred that was absolutely not equipped to handle so many people. They had only what little food and shelter that the Navy could set up - which ultimately wasn't enough. The Governor of Alaska was supposed to be supplying more, but he had pointedly announced that he would be feeding Alaskans first, Alaskans foremost and if the situation became bad enough, Alaskans _only_. Worse still, there had been an outbreak of pneumonia on one of the boats, and it threatened to spread without proper medical treatment - and the newly established camp was desperately short of doctors.

What remained of the Pines family had remained on the boat, deciding it was better to starve on a solid deck than on marshy soil. A few others had had the same idea, but most went ashore.

"Well," said Dipper tiredly, picking at a tin of undefined meat the Navy had managed to provide, "This has to be rock bottom. We either starve or the Martians catch up to us."

"Dipper, you can't give up!" exclaimed Mabel.

"I'm not _giving up_ ," replied Dipper, "I'm just saying it's not looking good. I'm not gonna lie to myself."

He lay back on the deck.

"Maybe we'll get through, I dunno," he sighed, "I'm just gonna savour what I have left, you know?"

Mabel sighed and turned to Pacifica.

"Uh, Paz? Are you okay?"

Pacifica was curled up and shivering badly - her face had gone very pale.

* * *

[1] In the original novel, Lord Garrick is Britain's chief justice. He dies unceremoniously and forgotten amid the mass flight from London. In this sense, General Garrick is pretty much in the same role.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out it can always get worse.


	7. VII: Brave New World

**VII: Brave New World**

_If you want to discover just what there is in a man — give him power. - Francis Trevelyan Miller_

After three nights of travel, Ford approached an empty town.

To find a town free of Martian machines was becoming incredibly rare these days, which had led Ford to become wary to the point of paranoia. He still carried the general's pistol, just in case he ran into any unscrupulous survivors in the wasteland of red weed. He just hoped nobody realised he didn't have any ammunition. He had scouted the small town thoroughly, crawling from shadow to shadow, until at last he was satisfied that he was alone.

He ventured on a stately house that had probably belonged to a rich man. The burnt out, twisted remains of an expensive car sat on the driveway, tangled among the scarlet growth. A skeleton lay next to the door, broken in such a way that Ford suspected he'd been trampled. A news helicopter had crashed on the front lawn - he could just about make out the faint, peeling logo of 'Channel Six' on the side. Apart from this, the house seemed intact.

He crept up to the door, checking thoroughly for traps before gingerly pushing it open. The house was well-furnished and surprisingly clean - Ford supposed that nobody had had time to loot it before the arrival of the tripods. A newspaper, delivered on the morning of the first landings, sat on the dresser. Ford picked it up, scrutinising the cover.

It was a picture of the President shaking hands with his Canadian counterpart in Washington before discussing a trade deal - it seemed weird to remember a time when such things mattered. A black marker had been taken to the President's head - the face had been covered in black ink and there were several tears in the paper indicating the frustration of the vandal. With a deep unease, Ford realised that he wasn't the first one to enter this house.

The click of a rifle's safety soon indicated that he wasn't alone, either.

"Turn around very slowly."

Ford gritted his teeth but complied. His eyes widened as he regarded his assailant.

"Howard Wells?!"

Howard's eyes widened as he lowered his rifle.

"Ford Pines?! Jesus, what happened to you? You look like death!"

Not that Howard looked any better, Ford noted internally. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was unshaven. Most of his uniform and equipment were gone, save for his jacket and rifle - he had acquired jeans and a ragged backpack to replace what he'd lost. His face was severely bruised and he was burnt in some places. Still, he didn't seem as gaunt as Ford imagined he himself looked - perhaps he had found a reliable source of food.

"It's...it's been hard," replied Ford, "What about you?"

"Ever since that _prick_ Northwest wrecked the bridge evacuation," scowled Howard, "I've been keeping close to ground. I found this place about five days ago - been hiding in the basement."

He grinned, exposing deeply yellowed teeth.

"This guy must've been prepping for World War Three," he said, "Whole place is stocked up with canned food. Compared to being outside, it's the damn Ritz! Come on, I'll show you!"

He led Ford down the hallway to the door to the basement.

"Anyway, now you're here, I can finally start talking about my plan!" he said, opening the door.

"Plan?" quizzed Ford.

Howard nodded, leading Ford down into the basement. It was dark inside, with only a few electrical lights set up to provide illumination. The corporal had set himself up well, comparatively - he had a small sleeping bag, a table dragged down from upstairs, a box of tools and a shelf covered in bottles - Ford thought at first that they might have been medicine but soon realised they were in fact wines.

"Sit down!" he said, pulling up a battered camp chair, "Get comfortable!"

Ford sat down, and it felt like a great weight had been relieved of him. He realised that he had barely rested in days.

"So," he said, doing his best to relax, "This plan?"

"Sure," nodded Howard.

He offered a bottle of wine - Ford declined and he took it for himself.

"So," he said, sitting down, "Way I see it, the Old World's gone. The President, Congress, the Governor, the United Nations, all those things - they're all dead, swept away. You know what that means?"

Ford raised an eyebrow, inviting Howard to go on.

" _Clean slate!_ " replied the corporal, extending his arms excitedly as his smile widened, "All the hang-ups of society, man, they're _gone!_ We can build anew! And you know where we're going to build it?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me," shrugged Ford.

"Underground!" exclaimed Howard, "In the basements and the sewers and the subway tunnels! Martians can't bring their machines down there! We'd have dominion! We can build a whole society down there, away from the Heat Rays and the black smoke!"

He took a swig of his wine.

"Out there, it's a tragedy, a disaster," he shrugged, "But that doesn't mean we can't take the opportunity to make a better world, huh? Not just for ourselves, but for our kids!"

"...in a sewer," said Ford flatly.

"I'm not saying it's prime real estate," shrugged Howard, "But it's what we have."

He began to pace.

"So how would this... _new world_ work?" asked Ford.

"Everything would be based on the community," replied Howard, "No federal government, no cops, no bureaucracy - everybody would make decisions as one group."

"A direct democracy?"

"Yeah! One guy, one vote," replied Howard, "Everyone would be exactly equal. Nobody would care about your skin or your gender or anything! Also, no money! Everybody gets back exactly what they contribute. If you don't contribute, you get nothing. Scientists and engineers would prosper and stock marketeers and investment bankers would die off."

He sighed dreamily.

"We'd create a scientific utopia!" he exclaimed, "Develop cold fusion and lasers and whatever else we can think up, and in a few years, we'll back up and give the damn tripods the what for!"

"You can't possibly want to fight them _again!_ " exclaimed Ford.

"No, not with a rifle," replied Howard, "With our _own_ Heat Ray, our _own_ black smoke, our _own_ tripods! What do they call it...reverse engineering!"

Ford stood up.

"You might be on to something," he said, scratching his chin, "If I could get my hands on a tripod...maybe, just _maybe_ , I could...but I'd need a lab first..."

"Say no more!" exclaimed Howard, a manic glint in his eye, "I've started building already! Come on, I'll show you!"

"Well, you're resourceful," nodded Ford, following Howard through a door at the back of the basement.

He found himself in a small utility cupboard. The wall panels across from him had been torn off, and the corporal had dug the entrance to a tunnel. Ford knelt down to look.

It was far from the great society Howard had envisioned.

The tunnel was about a metre long, uneven and unstable in construction. Part of the side wall had already begun to cave in. The floor of the tunnel was littered in broken glass bottles and it stank of alcohol. Ford glanced back at the corporal - he was smiling down on his creation like a father might look at a newborn child, but his red eyes sagged deeply and his vision was unfocused. He gave Ford a thumbs up and swigged his bottle of wine again.

In that moment, Ford saw Howard plain.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Ford wanted to tell him that his dream was simply that - a mere dream. He wanted to tell him that he had nowhere near the genius, the skill, the energy or the patience required to make his brave new world a reality. He wanted to tell him that he was lost, mad or possibly even just drunk. He wanted to tell him that it was all over, and that there was nothing he or anybody else could do to save themselves.

He forced himself to smile.

"It's a good start," he lied.

"I'll drink to that!" exclaimed Howard, "Well, except this bottle is empty. Care for another?"

He marched merrily back into the basement. Ford looked back at the tunnel, shook his head, and slowly followed.

Despite his disillusionment, Ford stayed in the house until nightfall. Howard continued to elaborate on his grand plan, repeating himself over and over again as he drank bottle after bottle. Ford helped himself to a can of beans - he found he could only eat half before his empty stomach erupted into terrible indigestion.

Eventually, Ford heard the distant cry of a Martian tripod, and knew he would have to leave. He looked over to Howard, about to tell him to join him - but one look at the inebriated corporal dissuaded him of this notion. He was clearly too drunk to be moved.

"Howard," he said.

"Y-yeah?" asked Howard.

"I...I'm gonna try capturing a Martian now," he said, "I'll be back by morning."

"Good for you!" slurred Howard, raising his bottle, "That's what the new world needs! Go getters. You...you go man..."

He put down his bottle and put his head in his hands.

"Goodbye, Howard," said Ford, heading for the stairs.

As he ascended from the shelter, he could hear Howard drunkenly begin to sing.

_"Take a look around you..._  
At the world we've come to know...  
Does it seem to be much more...  
Than a crazy circus show...  
Maybe from the madness...  
Something beautiful will grow..." __**[1]**

As Ford gently closed the door, Howard's singing faded into a soft sobbing.

* * *

There was nothing but rain and mud.

The Navy had been called away to Pearl Harbor with a promise from the Governor of Alaska that he would take over feeding the refugee camp. This had been exposed as a lie. Now, after six days, the last food had run out. There were no medical supplies. There was no electricity. There was hardly even fresh water.

One by one, alone and deprived of all the necessities of human life, the refugees in Ninilchik started to die.

Pneumonia had fully taken hold of Pacifica by now. She now lay on a table converted to a makeshift hospital bed in the same evacuation ship she had arrived on - she was pale as a ghost and had lost a significant amount of weight. She had fallen into unconsciousness earlier in the day - without medication, it was not expected that she would survive the night.

Dipper, Mabel and Wendy stood vigil over her comatose form, waiting in utter silence. There was nothing left to say or do - either aid would come, and they would live; or it wouldn't, and they would die. It was as simple as that.

Mabel swallowed, gingerly taking hold of Pacifica's hand. She glanced over to Dipper and Wendy, who were huddled for warmth in the dark room.

It would be so easy to give up, she thought - there was no food coming. Even if there was, the Martians would probably roll over Canada and catch up to them here. It would almost be a liberation to lay down and accept it. She suspected Dipper had done that already.

She didn't want that 'liberation.'

In her head, she had come to a decision. She would give hope one last chance - one last night. She would believe with all her heart that somebody would come and that they would all be saved.

And if that didn't happen - if Pacifica died in the night - then she would finally be ready to accept the end of the world.

* * *

[1] These are the last lines of _Brave New World_ , the Artilleryman's song from the Jeff Wayne version.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a merry story, isn't it?


	8. VIII: Portland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late - I actually forgot to post it. Long day, y'know?

**VIII: Portland**

_And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings; look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. - Percy Bysshe Shelley_

The sun slowly rose over a desolate, empty Portland.

Ford struggled through the outskirts of the city, following the railway line once more. The smoke and smell of dying embers drifted over him as he passed a suburb had been wiped out by fire - any human remains had been removed by the spider-machines now, leaving only quiet rubble. There were no birds, no stray animals - he couldn't even see any insects. The eradication of indigenous life from this small part of humanity's domain had been completed in detail.

Every step was agony, and yet Ford still trudged on. He didn't know what he expected to find, but he reckoned that if there was any significant human presence left in Oregon, it would have gone to ground in the ruins of its largest city. After all, they surely couldn't obliterate a population of half a million entirely - could they?

The journey into town seemed to take an age. Every so often, Ford would pass a smashed and burnt wreck of a train or a road crossing lined with burnt-out cars. In one suburb, the massive form of a Boeing 787 lay in pieces by the line, a trail of pulverised houses and shops marking the crash site's location. In the distance, he could see the centre of the city - the large buildings were severely damaged, some reduced to burnt steel skeletons.

Every now and then he would stop to look around, hoping in vain to find somebody, _anybody_ else. But as the hours passed, it became clearer and clearer that there was nobody left in this desolate, deserted city.

The silence was the worst part. The sheer dearth of sound was utterly deafening - it pounded in Ford's head, gnawing at his agonised senses, screaming silently into his very psyche. He tried to talk to himself to break it but could will no sound from his parched, aching throat. He almost wished that he might hallucinate a companion - going mad among imaginary friends must surely be better than remaining sane in such a lonely, warped environment.

After what seemed like an eternity, he approached the Union Station. He trudged onto the platform, the crunch of the red weed under his feet, and headed wearily towards the station concourse. He stepped inside - he soon wished to God he hadn't.

Dozens of shrivelled, mummified forms littered the interior of the station, burnt and deformed by what must have been the intense heat of fires raging outside. Their bodies had twisted into a macabre shape - it looked almost as though they were praying. The stench was horrific, and if Ford had had even a morsel left in his stomach he would surely have vomited. It reminded him of images of terrible wars past, of Dresden and Hamburg and Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

He walked numbly into the station, slumping down on the twisted remains of a metal chair. To survey the area was pointless. There would be no food, no water, no supplies, no aid. He supposed he could walk to Vancouver, but quickly banished the thought - he was in absolutely no state to traverse the entire state of Washington, and in any case, the same destruction that had consumed Portland would no doubt have consumed any other settlement he could possibly have reached.

It was over.

" _UUUULLLLLLAAAAAAA!_ "

The cry of the Martian tripods sounded from outside, echoing over the empty city. It reverberated in Ford's mind, echoing again and again, tearing at his thoughts.

He stood up and managed a quiet, pathetic whisper.

"I give up."

He walked to the station door, slowly and calmly opening it and stepping out into the parking lot. The air was filled with precipitation - it would rain soon, as if nature was preparing for the funeral of humanity.

Ford walked on, following the cries of the Martian. His desire to survive had completely, finally eroded. Who did he think he was kidding? His family was gone and he was alone - one last, tortured man standing among the ghosts. What was the point of going on? What right did he even have to prolong this dark, tragic comedy of a war?

" _UUUUUULLLLLLAAAAAAAAA!_ "

He walked into the streets, passing through an alleyway and into a deserted city street.

Two blocks down, there stood a tripod.

Ford clenched his fists and closed his eyes.

"I give up," he repeated.

He began to walk purposely towards the tripod, arms outstretched. Images flashed in his mind of the terrible, terrible days he had endured - he felt the infinite stresses of them lifted, surrendered into the wind as he accepted the end.

_"You need not worry, my good man. The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one."_

_"Ours is not to reason why..."_

_"Martians, huh? Would you believe it?"_

_"Can't you see my wife is on board?!"_

" _Deliver me from evil! DELIVER ME FROM EVIL! PLEASE! DELIVER ME FROM EVIL!_ "

_"All the hang-ups of society, man, they're gone! We can build anew!"_

He was a block away from the tripod now. As he waited for the final, searing blow of the Heat Ray, for the final freedom from this intolerable suffering, he thought of his family one last time. Despite the pain that wracked him, he smiled - he'd be with them soon, one way or another.

Then there came the cry.

" _Caaaaaaw!_ "

Ford opened his eyes.

The tripod stood motionless over the road, it's tall, terrifying stature casting it's shadow over Ford's trembling form. It's metal form was covered in black spots - Ford squinted, and realised that they were ravens, picking at an exposed form peeking from a crack in one of the machine's strange eyes. It took a while for Ford to recognise what exactly it was in his half-delirious state, but he realised in shock that it was the pilot. Suddenly it slipped from its perch and landed on the tarmac of the road with a wet splat.

The form was indistinguishable to the Martian that Ford had seen so long ago at Horshell. The creature's hide was covered in ugly, puss-covered red spots, and fluids seemed to drain from every orifice. Ford had to stop himself from touching the putrid corpse as he wracked his brain to guess what exactly had happened. As he did so he heard a thunderous crash - another tripod collapsed a fair distance down the street, falling into a building with a cloud of smoke and dust.

Then it clicked.

 _Bacteria_.

After everything humanity had thrown at them, after all the troops, the tanks, the shells, the planes and the atomic bombs, the Martians had died of _illness_.

Ford fell to his knees and clutched his forehead with his arm, breaking into what could be described as half a laugh and half a sob. He looked up at the grey sky as the rain began to fall, laughing harder and harder in a state of utter delirium. The hollow and weary sound echoed over the silent city of Portland - one by one, survivors emerged from darkened hiding places, gazing in timid wonder at the disabled war machines and the hysterical man in the street. All the while, the rain, cold and cleansing, cascaded down.

At long last, it was _over_.

* * *

It was twilight at the refugee camp when the lights were seen in the distance.

Weary coast guardsmen raced to the perimeter, preparing their ancient rifles for one last stand. There was no mass rout behind them - the refugees simply watched as the lights came closer, their will to escape finally eroded. A strange sound filled the air.

On the evacuation ship, Dipper, Mabel, Wendy and Soos watched silently as the bright lights approached.

"Well, this is it," said Dipper flatly.

Mabel squinted.

"Dipper?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"Are tripods that _tall?_ "

The lights thundered over Ninilchik, and the refugees finally realised what they were.

Three bright-white helicopters landed in the centre of the camp, dropping off an assortment of doctors and nurses. They scattered to and fro, interrogating guards and camp leaders for information about who needed what treatment. A small party of them were lead onto the ship by a coast guardsman - they could just about hear what he was saying.

"...we lost most of the patients here overnight but there's a teenage girl who's still alive," he explained, "Uh...those guys there are with her, ask about Pacifica Northwest..."

The party of doctors marched briskly down the hull of the ship towards them.

"Your friend has pneumonia?" asked the head doctor urgently.

"Yeah," nodded Mabel, "Yeah, she does! I...are you here to help her? To get us food? To..."

The doctor nodded.

"United Nations, ma'am," she said, "Help is on the way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, this is what happens when you forget your vaccines, man.


	9. IX: Aftermath

**IX: Aftermath**

_And the seventh angel poured out his vial into the air; and there came a great voice out of the temple of heaven, from the throne, saying, It is done. - Revelations 16:17 (KJB)_

"...he's waking up."

Ford opened his eyes.

He was on a collapsible bed in an old warehouse, one of a row of twelve. Doctors were running to and fro, tending to patients on the other beds. Two armed soldiers stood at the door - when Ford looked carefully he could see that there were Canadian flag patches on their shoulders.

"Where...where am I?" he asked.

"Canadian Army triage," replied a doctor, walking over to him with a clipboard, "Don't worry, you're safe now."

"Triage..." repeated Ford, "Canadian...am I still in Portland?"

The doctor nodded.

"Just outside the centre of the city, sir," he said, "You're quite lucky - you've been in a coma for six days."

" _Six days?!"_ spluttered Ford.

"Yep," said the doctor, "We honestly didn't think you'd make it for a while. Looked like you'd pushed yourself to the absolute limit - how far did you come from to get to Portland?"

"Outside Eugene," he replied, "And before that, Gravity Falls."

"Jesus, right next to one of them cylinders," nodded the doctor, "It's a miracle you're still alive; most people who didn't get over the Willamette..."

He trailed off.

"Anyway, I need to ask you a few questions," he said, raising his clipboard, "You're Doctor Stanford Pines, correct?"

"Yes," nodded Ford, "How did you know?"

"You were recognised," replied the doctor, "Another survivor from Gravity Falls brought you in."

"Was it...who was it?" asked Ford frantically.

"Hang on, I've made a note...it was a Ms. Tambry DiCocco," he said.

Ford tried his hardest to cover his disappointment that he hadn't been found by his family. He must have failed, because the doctor gave him a sympathetic nod.

"We're going through family records, if that's what you're wondering," he said, "Captain Elphinstone's handling Roadkill County, I can pencil you in for two-thirty, if you want."

"Yeah, thanks," nodded Ford.

"No problem," replied the doctor, "Second question, and I know this might be a bit hard; can you confirm anybody you know to have been killed? We really need confirmations to inform next of kin..."

* * *

It was lunchtime when the doctor let Ford go.

Of course there were stipulations; he couldn't leave the area (not that Ford could - his muscles ached and it hurt to walk too far) and there were parts of the compound that were strictly off-limits for a variety of reasons, but he was able to get his first substantial meal in days from a cafeteria manned by South Korean volunteers. He now sat on a patch of grass under the sun, looking up at the clouds.

His suspicions regarding bacteria had been confirmed - the Martians had fallen sick and died, a lost expedition laid low by a land it didn't understand despite its apparent material superiority. The last tripod attack in the Pacific Northwest had been towards Vancouver, but the fighting machines had been laid low by the sickness by the time they reached its outskirts and the city was saved by the bell. Or the _bug_ , as it were.

Ford struggled not to feel bitter about it. If he had gone north instead of east, towards Yukon or Alaska instead of towards the sea, he would never have suffered the horrors of his week in Martian territory. It was almost nauseating - but then, how could he have known?

Anyway, the difficult task of cleaning would have to begin now. The Pacific Northwest was now under the temporary administration of the United Nations, and Canadian and South Korean peacekeepers had marched in to re-establish order and protect against brigands - not that many had survived to _become_ brigands. Ford glanced over to a small patrol of South Korean troops leaving the UN perimeter on patrol and thought of how surreal it was to see the United States, the once proud superpower, forced to accept help of the smaller nations of the world.

In the end, he didn't care that much. All he wanted to do now was find his family and see what was left of his home.

"Are you Stan Pines?"

Ford looked up. A Canadian soldier had walked up and was looking expectantly at him.

" _Ford_ Pines," replied Ford, "Stan Pines is my brother."

"Sorry, I saw 'Stanford' on the list and thought..." he shrugged, "Captain Elphinstone's ready to see you now."

Ford nodded, climbing to his feet and following the soldier through the compound to an old foreman's office. Two sentries stood guard on opposite sides of the door, one crushing the remains of red weed under his boot - the terrible weed, though dead, still hadn't been entirely cleared.

The office itself was spartan. Captain Elphinstone[1] stood behind her desk, dressed in the same camouflaged fatigues as the soldiers outside. On the wall behind her was a map of the United States that was covered in coloured pins and tiny flags. A large, black pin marked the locations of Eugene and Seattle, and as Ford closer he could see that they were matched by San Francisco, Detroit, Dallas, Miami, Denver...

"Dr. Pines?" said Elphinstone, "Captain Karen Elphinstone, Canadian Army intelligence. Can you take a seat?"

Ford sat down on a row seats by the window, looking around at the others in the room. There were two men and a woman he didn't recognise - between them and him was Tambry. She looked gaunt and pale, and she was clearly underfed. A deep cut ran over her right cheek and her hands were covered in fading burns. She looked about as bad as he imagined he himself looked.

"Is this everybody?" asked Elphinstone.

"Whole list, ma'am," nodded the soldier.

"Alright, dismissed," she said.

The soldier saluted and walked out.

"Alright," said Elphinstone, "I'll cut to the chase - you are the only survivors from Roadkill County we could find who were still in Oregon. We're assuming anybody who isn't here and didn't escape the state is dead."

She picked up a list on her desk.

"So, we should have Ms. Delaney of Horshell, Mr. and Mr. Robinson of Evergreen and Ms. DiCocco and Dr. Pines of Gravity Falls, correct?"

There were a few murmurs of confirmation and Elphinstone continued.

"First things first," she said, "I assume you want to know when you can get home?"

"Among other things," shrugged Ms. Delaney tiredly.

"Horshell is still cordoned off for the time being," said Elphinstone, "The weapons inspectors are still trying to make sure the cylinder is safe. As far as I know, the ROK have declared Evergreen safe, but if you want to get into that area you'll need to talk to my Korean counterpart. Gravity Falls was declared safe this morning and we've managed to reopen the railroad line, so we'll be running a train there tomorrow if you want to be on it."

"Who's running the country?" blurted the shorter of the Robinsons.

"I was going to cover that later, but..." Elphinstone sighed, "The President and most of his cabinet have been confirmed killed, as have the majority of Congress. The government is currently being run in exile by the Secretary for Veteran's Affairs in Honolulu[2], and the UN has voted to back up that government. Authority's a bit... _ad-hoc_ in some regions, but we're doing a bit better up here."

She sat down on her list, looking at her list again. She sighed heavily.

"Now," she said, "I have a list of relations of yours who have been confirmed to have survived and...well, who haven't. This isn't going to be easy...any volunteers to go first?"

Tambry raised her hand.

"Um...my parents, Captain?" she asked, "Are they..."

Elphinstone shook her head.

"There's really no easy way to say this," she said, "But we've been through your records, and you are the only member of your family we've been able to confirm alive. Your parents were identified near Salem. I'm sorry, but..."

"I think I knew," said Tambry, looking miserably at the floor, "But...thanks anyway."

Ford couldn't bring himself to go next, so he waited for everybody else to ask for information. Ms. Delaney's family had mostly been killed, but apparently there was an uncle alive in a Puerto Rico, of all places. The Robinsons were told that a few family members had turned up in Whitehorse. Then, finally, came Ford's turn.

"We understand you have family on the East Coast," said Elphinstone, "We're trying to get records, but getting any records from the Northeast is hard right now..."

"They're not my family anymore," said Ford, his voice slightly bitter, "I want to know about Dipper and Mabel and...and my brother..."

Elphinstone nodded.

"Mabel and Mason, who I'm going to assume you're talking about when you say Dipper," she said, "Have been found in the Ninilchik refugee camp. I'm told they're being moved south. We think we've found their parents in Panama, but we haven't confirmed it yet."

"And my brother?" asked Ford, "Stanley Pines?"

Elphinstone looked down at her list.

"Stanley Pines was last seen in Newport," she said, "We have pretty much confirmed that everyone there who didn't board the evacuation ships was killed. We haven't found a body, but given that many can't be identified and that a lot of people drowned...I'm sorry, Dr. Pines, but I'm afraid he's been declared dead in absentia."

Ford stared at the Canadian officer, unable to form a response. She had to be wrong, didn't she? Stan had survived far worse than this! To make it all the way to the sea, only to be cut down at the final hurdle - that just wasn't Stan! He was surely alive, hiding out somewhere in the woods! Surely! He was just waiting for the right time to emerge from hiding!

And yet, deep in his heart, Ford knew that wasn't true. He had seen the Martians' handiwork - at Horshell and at the Willamette River and at Portland. If they said he was dead, it was reasonable to assume they were right. But maybe...

"I was told," added Elphinstone, breaking the silence, "That he gave up his spot so that the coast guard would take his niece and nephew aboard. That if he hadn't, they would have all been left behind."

That confirmed it, in Ford's mind. That was exactly what his brother would have done.

Stan Pines was dead.

Ford didn't know what he expected here. Conventional wisdom would call for him to fly into a rage, now that he'd experienced denial. Or perhaps he should break down and lament his passing.

Instead he looked up at Elphinstone.

"I see," he said, his voice hollow.

He didn't pay much attention to the rest of the meeting. In his defence, he didn't think anybody else did either.

* * *

"Alright, buddy, this is as far as we can take you!"

Ford nodded as he climbed off the back of the truck, stepping back onto the familiar gravel of Gopher Road. He had ridden here on an Canadian Army truck from the railhead a few miles away, bound for Horshell to relieve the troops on guard there. They had driven through town on the way - Gravity Falls was devastated, but people were starting to return, to rebuild their lives as best they could.

It certainly seemed like there were a lot less people now.

He looked around as Tambry climbed out of the truck behind him. Much of the forest was burnt, the trees blackened skeletons over burnt soil. The remains of the red weed simmered quietly in the sun - it seemed likely that they would decompose on their own, given time. And despite the destruction, there were still small patches of green on the ground. Life, Ford supposed, would adapt and return.

The army truck rumbled away, leaving its deposited passengers away.

"So what do you do now?" asked Ford.

Tambry shrugged.

"There's gotta be some kind of camp around here somewhere," she said.

Ford shook his head.

"Why don't you come with me?" he asked, "I mean, my house might be ruined but they can't have got the basement, right? Just...for the night, even."

Tambry paused, then she nodded.

"I'd like that, Dr. Pines," she said.

"Please," replied Ford, "Call me Ford."

They trudged down the road, following twisted signs to the Mystery Shack, until at last they arrived.

Ford let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

The Shack was scorched, and a few of the windows were broken, but ultimately it was intact. Perhaps the Martians had skipped over it in favour of burning out the main roads out of town, Ford mused. In any case, it wasn't the house he cared about, not really.

"Grunkle Ford?"

Ford trudged towards the front of the Shack, breaking into a run as he approached his niece and nephew. Almost delirious with joy, he scooped them up into a hug, holding them as tightly as he possibly could.

"Kids!" he exclaimed, "You're safe!"

"I thought you were dead!" replied Dipper.

"Takes more than an alien invasion to keep me from my family," replied Ford.

"Did...did you hear about Stan?" asked Dipper.

Ford sighed, letting go of Dipper and Mabel.

"The best thing we can do is try to rebuild our lives," he said sadly, "It's what he would've wanted."

"Maybe he's okay, though?" suggested Mabel, "They didn't say they'd identified him, right?"

Ford sighed. It would be best for her to accept what had happened in her own time, he thought.

He looked up, seeing Soos, Wendy and Pacifica on the balcony. The latter seemed to be quite ill; she was very pale and wrapped in a blanket, but she still offered a wave to the newly arrived Ford.

"So, now that we're all together again," said Dipper, stepping back and looking up at the sky, "What now?"

"We appreciate what we have, dude," shrugged Soos.

It was hard to dispute that statement.

They had been through incredible hardship and terrible loss, and it would be wrong to say that they emerged from the crisis better than they had come into it. But they had still had each other; they still had this strange, somewhat makeshift family, and for that they were grateful.

Through sheer luck, they had somehow survived. Now they had to make the most of it.

* * *

In the end, it was not the great weapons and machines of man that felled the Martian invaders. No genius innovations or great martial feats contributed significantly to their ultimate defeat, despite the small local successes they may have engineered. Ultimately, it was the smallest of Earth's myriad of creatures that saved our planet. For as the Martians carried out their terrible destruction of our world, these microscopic allies of ours performed their work, engineering their overthrow. The moment the Martians emerged from their cylinders, they were doomed. The human race remained the dominant species on this Earth, despite the toll of one and a half billion it ultimately had to pay for our lofty status.

The world that emerged from the calamity had been irrevocably changed. The great powers that had ruled the world - the United States, Russia and China - had been almost swept from the map of the globe. Markets became extraordinarily depressed, almost non-functional, and the smoke of a hundred thousand blazing fires ruined crops across the Northern Hemisphere for a whole summer. Great cities had been transfigured into burnt shells, and some would never again be inhabited. The road to recovery would be long and arduous.

As for those we have followed in this account, the future was not always certain. Thirty-five percent of those arrived in Ninilchik would soon perish of starvation and disease - a crime that would eventually send the state's Governor to trial in London (the Hague having been largely destroyed). Among this butcher's bill can be seen the name of Gideon Charles Gleeful. As for his fellows, most returned home. Shandra Jimenez relocated permanently to Honolulu.

Soon after the end of the disaster, it emerged that Soos' fiancée, Melody, had managed to reach Canada before the destructions of Portland and Seattle. They were reunited and married hastily - they, among most of humanity, having been educated as to the requirement to live our short lives to the very fullest by the Martian invasion.

Unfortunately, there is no information as to what happened to Corporal Howard Wells. Nor were the Corduroy family ever seen again.

The years since twenty-seventeen have done little to alleviate the anxieties and paranoia that followed the invasion. Men who once looked to the skies in wonder now do so in apprehension. Funding of scientific concerns, especially relating to space, has increased greatly; the United Nations have created a space program with the aim of returning to the Moon and using that body as an early-warning station against further attacks. The concerns of nations, comparatively, seem fickle. There have been no conflicts involving major nation-states since the war.

As this account was being written, astronomers were focusing keenly on Venus. For the past week or so, peculiar lights have been seen on that planet of storms and crushing gravity. This, naturally, has enraptured the imaginations of the public and stoked great worry and concern in the newspapers. Discussions with leading scientists on the matter seem to indicate that a new invasion from Venus is not expected at this time, however. The UN Space Agency is confident that the faraway body cannot possibly support complex life. This 'Venus Scare', they declare confidently, is nothing more than a passing fretfulness.

After all, the chances of anything coming from Venus are a million to one, they say.

**The End**

* * *

[1] Named for the Ephinstone family from the novel.

[2] This is the absolute lowest point on the official US Presidential Line of Succession that isn't Homeland Security, incidentally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I suppose I'd better address the elephant in the room - Stan.
> 
> Yes, I know I'm a monster. But I figured there had to be a real, actually loss to the Pines family in this story; and in any case, if Stan miraculously turned up at the end, it would cheapen his sacrifice in Chapter V. That said, I will remind everyone that he's only _believed_ dead - it's up to the reader to decide if he is or is not.
> 
> Well, this is all she wrote for now. I'm not planning a sequel, save in fevered bursts of imagination that don't last long, but we should never say never. In the mean time, thanks for reading, and I'll see you in the next one. :)


End file.
